tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7679137193813529362018-09-17T08:39:08.677+02:00mainly mongooseThe joys and tribulations of a field biologist (and hermit) studying
mongooses in the South African bush.mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.comBlogger126125blogspot/NjKRyhttps://feedburner.google.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-71459755238103322112015-01-23T13:02:00.002+02:002015-01-23T13:04:28.194+02:00What, a new blog post??Yep, that’s right.<br />I’ve been driven to it by the hardships of my life.<br /><br />Normally I can handle my self-imposed solitude; month after month alone in the bush, my only human converse, ‘Fill it up with Super, thanks’.<br />But sometimes it all gets too difficult and I just can’t go on without the comfort of a sympathetic ear (or rather, eye).<br /><br />What’s brought about this tragic state of affairs?<br />The unbearable cuteness of mongoose pups.<br /><br />Each day, when I visit my study animals, I have to face them. Waddling out eagerly on their stumpy legs, they look&nbsp;like&nbsp;a swarm of mouse-sized bear cubs.&nbsp;Blunt noses raised, they peer up at me myopically with misty green eyes.&nbsp;As I crouch down, they gather around, clambering over my boots and eagerly placing their tiny paws on my leg, their claws scratchy against my skin. Although, at three weeks old, they’re still primarily milk-guzzlers, they’re hoping I'll give them&nbsp;a mealworm, which they snatch hungrily from my fingers and crunch up with a relish quite disproportionate to their size.<br /><br /><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kJ-tA0LKO8Q/VMIiBpccH7I/AAAAAAAABek/H8LR6qwL1OU/s1600/halcyon%2Bpups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kJ-tA0LKO8Q/VMIiBpccH7I/AAAAAAAABek/H8LR6qwL1OU/s1600/halcyon%2Bpups.jpg" height="293" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tended constantly by a babysitter during their first 4 weeks, dwarf mongoose pups first toddle from their termite mound at 2.5 to 3 weeks. These little guys - Periwinkle, Speedwell and Nepenthes (coz she bites) - are from Halcyon’s first litter.</span>&nbsp;Copyright L Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7ZqsCvQn_o/VMIiQkRex4I/AAAAAAAABe4/0xD13_PcSQM/s1600/pup%2Bswarm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-B7ZqsCvQn_o/VMIiQkRex4I/AAAAAAAABe4/0xD13_PcSQM/s1600/pup%2Bswarm.jpg" height="208" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A swarm of little Herpestids. In an act of unusual magnanimity, the reigning females in both Bugbears and Halcyon allowed their sisters’ litters to live this year (usually they just munch ‘em) so both groups are raising a bumper crop (7 and 8 pups respectively).</span> Copyright L Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />If the morning is drear and chilly, one of the pups will clamber laboriously up onto my leg and snuggle down, hearth-rug style, with its belly pressed firmly against the bare skin of my thigh. Since mongoose pups like to huddle, others soon follow suit, until I have the whole litter heaped in a somnolent pile in my lap. They’re so relaxed it looks as if some awful massacre has taken place; at least until the top ones grow chilly and squirm their way underneath their comatose siblings. The babysitters aren’t quite sure that this is kosher of course, and they sit watching anxiously, like mothers on the first day of school.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LJ2bFMYYQVc/VMIkcUqmSRI/AAAAAAAABfM/J6CodWyJG7g/s1600/removal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LJ2bFMYYQVc/VMIkcUqmSRI/AAAAAAAABfM/J6CodWyJG7g/s1600/removal.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here Violet, uncertain about protocol, drags her little brother Mouse-whiskers back to the termite mound.</span> Copyright L. Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wAng6ts4iPw/VMIkTWpFKjI/AAAAAAAABfE/e6AuZccZrzo/s1600/play%2Bnice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wAng6ts4iPw/VMIkTWpFKjI/AAAAAAAABfE/e6AuZccZrzo/s1600/play%2Bnice.jpg" height="303" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hey, play nice!</span> Copyright L Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IdNexYCMv18/VMIiHDW4c9I/AAAAAAAABew/L_9-DpLGAOw/s1600/latrining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IdNexYCMv18/VMIiHDW4c9I/AAAAAAAABew/L_9-DpLGAOw/s1600/latrining.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It’s never too early to learn to read. Campion and Rosy deciphering scent-messages at the group’s latrine.</span> Copyright L Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a_oXD4LNlx0/VMIk2g_Oq6I/AAAAAAAABfU/ywrOEu5iNjU/s1600/Proud%2BBergamot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-a_oXD4LNlx0/VMIk2g_Oq6I/AAAAAAAABfU/ywrOEu5iNjU/s1600/Proud%2BBergamot.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bergamot, the proud dad at Halcyon. </span>Copyright L.Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yL8OMvPOcYs/VMIiBseX4XI/AAAAAAAABeg/8uwrO1okNlI/s1600/baby%2Bbugbears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yL8OMvPOcYs/VMIiBseX4XI/AAAAAAAABeg/8uwrO1okNlI/s1600/baby%2Bbugbears.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Skipper and Piper (from Bugbears) playing on my heartstrings.</span> Copyright L Sharpe.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />So now you've seen the photos maybe you'll&nbsp;understand why it’s all too much for me.&nbsp;Why&nbsp;I just can’t continue without sharing the experience with another human being.mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-39638438918880473862014-02-10T14:04:00.001+02:002014-02-10T14:04:48.379+02:00Mongooses, mambas and me<span lang=""><span lang=""><br />As soon as I arrived at the group I knew something was wrong.<br /> <br />Mongooses were darting everywhere. Small worried faces peered out from beneath a tumble of granite boulders, and the piercing chirps of distressed mongoose pups pulsed from all directions at once. I saw Black (the group’s alpha male) snatch up a youngster and race off, leaping from boulder to boulder, before disappearing into a thicket more than 50 m (165 ft) away. Meanwhile, close to my feet, Iorek, fluffed into the shape of a football, approached in a slow ninja crouch.<br /> <br />Then I saw the cause.<br /> <br />Coiled on a sheet of rock right in front of me was one metre (3 ft) of slate-grey snake. It coiled and writhed and twisted sinuously in an eye-catching way that made my skin creep. But that was just the beginning (or more accurately the end). From this squirming mass stretched another meter of totally inert snake which led (my eyes drawn inexorably on) to the final metre. This rose up vertically, placing the snake’s smooth grey head at waist height. The creature was not looking at me; its gaze was fixed firmly on the mongooses. <br /> <br />Ah, a black mamba.<br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cWQ6ghslRRE/UvialXbmpYI/AAAAAAAABdc/2-fgaE0y2a4/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+michael+Ransburg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cWQ6ghslRRE/UvialXbmpYI/AAAAAAAABdc/2-fgaE0y2a4/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+michael+Ransburg.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black mambas (<i>Dendroaspis polylepis</i>) are the world’s second longest venomous snake (piped at the post only by India’s king cobra). They reach 2 m (6 ft) by their first birthday and can grow to 4 m (13 ft). Reputedly also the globe’s speediest serpent (but who’s clocked them <i>all</i>?), they zip along at 5 m (15 ft) per second, through the branches or down on terra firma.</span> <br />Photo by Michael Ransburg.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QadibDZd4cY/UvialqglL2I/AAAAAAAABdk/y0u0IAzOSH0/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+viperskin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QadibDZd4cY/UvialqglL2I/AAAAAAAABdk/y0u0IAzOSH0/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+viperskin.jpg" height="282" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Absurdly, black mambas (<i>Dendroaspis polylepis</i>) aren’t black. </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">It’s the insides of their mouths that are ebony (oh, of course). </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">When antsy, a mamba will raise the first third of its body&nbsp;vertically off the ground, flash its sooty maw and hiss ferociously (note to self: avoid black gums).</span> <br />Photo posted on Flickr by Viperskin.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now black mambas have almost mythic status here in Africa. Preposterously long and super quick, they might have slithered straight from the novels of Rider Haggard or an Indiana Jones movie. Their bite (if untreated) is 100% fatal, and they’re said to attack without provocation, chase their victims and track them down using scent. <br /> <br />And all this is true ...if you’re a dwarf mongoose.<br /> <br />However, even if you’re a bipedal primate (and I’m assuming you are), black mambas are not to be messed with. Piss one off (by molesting or cornering it) and you’re in serious trouble. Retaliating mambas bite multiple times at a single strike (although normally too rapidly to see), injecting about 100 mg of toxin at each lightning-quick chomp (no inoffensive ‘dry bites’ here I’m afraid). 10-15 mg of the stuff will kill you (by paralysis and suffocation), so unless you can conjure up antivenin and life-support within an hour or so, you may as well start looking for that brightly-lit tunnel.&nbsp; <br /> <br />Although all this is pleasantly titillating, it must be said that black mambas are masters at avoiding people. And they rarely nibble on humans. A study in the 1960s found that out of more than 1,000 snake-bite victims admitted to Durban hospitals over a seven year period, only eight had fallen foul of black mambas. <br /> And whenever I meet one (usually only a few times a year), it’s always rocketing away from me. <br /> So why was this snake at Bugbears just... er... standing there?<br /> And what was with the whole tail-writhing thingey?<br /> <br />I edged a little closer but the snake still didn’t respond. Black mambas hunt by day, actively tracking warm-blooded critters by scent, so they pose a serious threat to dwarf mongooses. <br />But if mambas are quick so too are mongooses, and the snake will only make a killing if it can catch one by surprise. So the instant a mongoose detects a whiff of serpent it screams ‘SNAKE!’ and whole group comes running. Fur-fluffed, spitting and growling, they encircle the reptile, creeping forward on their tummies before hurtling backward whenever it stirs. I bite my fingernails and sweat a lot. <br /> <br />Once they’ve harassed it, the mongooses&nbsp;flee (unlike with other large snakes), hotfooting it at least 100-300 m/yds. Yet they always leave someone (usually the second-in-charge male) behind. This&nbsp;guard follows the mamba’s every move for 10-20 minutes (presumably to check it doesn’t pursue the group) before racing off to rejoin his family. (No, I don’t know how he knows where they’ve gone, but he does). This strategy seems to work well and mambas aren’t big mongoose-eaters.<br /> <br />But when the group has small pups the whole ballgame changes. <br /> Pups are not quick. Pups are dim-witted and gullible.<br /> Suddenly mambas appear out of the woodwork.<br /> <br />The mamba in front of me was being guarded by both Iorek and Bear; meanwhile the other&nbsp;adults were dashing back and forth, helter-skelter, snatching up pups from various hiding places and carting them off in different directions (the old eggs-in-one-basket issue). I watched Pooh carefully stow her small burden in a narrow rock crevice before hurrying back to watch the snake. However, the pup, used to being tucked up snugly with its littermates,&nbsp;freaked out at being left all alone. Its anguished chirps, combining with those of its four siblings, rose in a&nbsp;deafening chorus of distress. <br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C8sXWZvNAo0/Uviam0EwQyI/AAAAAAAABd0/AqCRVhjTUk0/s1600/carrying+pup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-C8sXWZvNAo0/Uviam0EwQyI/AAAAAAAABd0/AqCRVhjTUk0/s1600/carrying+pup.jpg" height="291" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The group’s matriarch Iorek (BF010) hastily redistributing a vulnerable pup.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />The mamba still stood quite motionless, apart from its absurdly writhing&nbsp; rear end. Is this how mambas hunt mongooses? Was the snake trying to hold the mongooses’ attention with its nether coils while ambushing them from above? (Is this why mambas are so bloody long??) I can’t find any mention of mambas hunting this way but behavioural studies of wild snakes are as rare as... er... snake’s legs. And doting snake-enthusiasts are unlikely to feed their pets mongooses (at least I hope not!). I became more convinced by this interpretation just a few days later when I came across another mamba doing exactly the same thing with Koppiekats (who also have little pups).<br /><br /> <br />﻿﻿<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q81ZteyLh5A/Uvils67OtCI/AAAAAAAABeE/QLM_A2BjyYk/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+ian+turk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Q81ZteyLh5A/Uvils67OtCI/AAAAAAAABeE/QLM_A2BjyYk/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+ian+turk.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black mamba venom is a potent concoction that locks down muscle cells in numerous devious ways. However, there’s a bright side: it also contains mambalign, a ‘better-than-morphine’ painkiller. Damaged and inflamed tissue becomes acidic (due to a build up of positive ions) and these ions trigger pain by flooding into nerve cells via special portals (‘acid-sensing ion channels’ or ASICs) on the cell’s surface. Mambalign locks these ASICs tightly closed, thus stopping pain. It’s not clear why mambas provide this unexpected boon to their victims, especially since the venom of many less-considerate snakes actually incites pain by locking ASICs <i>open</i>.</span><span style="font-size: small;">You can read a popular account of mambalign research&nbsp;</span><a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/notrocketscience/2012/10/03/painkilling-chemicals-with-no-side-effects-found-in-black-mamba-venom/#more-7726" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: small;">here</span></a>.<br />Photo by Ian Turk.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />﻿<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s8AVm7eKl4Y/Uviakh8RxNI/AAAAAAAABdM/zGdOnxiNz-o/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+david+bygott.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-s8AVm7eKl4Y/Uviakh8RxNI/AAAAAAAABdM/zGdOnxiNz-o/s1600/black+mamba+flkr+david+bygott.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black mambas are easy to identify thanks to their <i>Witch Weekly</i>-winning smile.&nbsp;The guide books rarely mention this, favouring instead the sensationalist ‘coffin-shaped’ head.</span><br />Photo by David Bygott.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />As I edged a little nearer to the mamba I dislodged a pebble which bounced down toward the snake. Instantly it shot off into the undergrowth. Iorek and Cricket raced after it, desperate to keep it in sight, but it was moving so fast it had gone in an instant.<br />Calling constantly to one another, the mongooses fanned out&nbsp;to search. They crept about tentatively on tip-toe and with their backs arched, sniffing and peering under boulders, into crevices and up into the overhead branches. After about 10 minutes, they seemed satisfied that the snake wasn’t loitering nearby and began their exodus. While&nbsp;Black kept guard from the top of a large boulder, the others hurriedly gathered up the five squawking pups and raced off with them toward a distant kopje. <br /><br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LVvOSanhD7I/Uvial9CMfEI/AAAAAAAABdo/0p_UNqTmniQ/s1600/Black+on+guard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LVvOSanhD7I/Uvial9CMfEI/AAAAAAAABdo/0p_UNqTmniQ/s1600/Black+on+guard.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Black (BM003) watching for the enemy while the group evacuates the pups.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kPxTjLxgWjY/Uviam-bZPWI/AAAAAAAABd4/yUR6U78rFZw/s1600/moving+pups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kPxTjLxgWjY/Uviam-bZPWI/AAAAAAAABd4/yUR6U78rFZw/s1600/moving+pups.jpg" height="276" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tick (BF038) carrying her little brother/sister out of harm’s way.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> The mongooses regrouped about 150m/yrds away beneath a huge granite boulder. After Cricket and Bear had raced back for a last quick check of the area (to ensure no errant pup had been left behind), the group settled down in a huddle to groom one another consolingly. The pups, now happily together again, began to play wrestle. <br />But everyone was still unnerved. <br />How could I tell? <br />Each time I raised my hand unconsciously to shoo a fly, they’d all leap in the air!<br /><br /> <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zIdd5h3XPlI/Uviak6-DwfI/AAAAAAAABdQ/wNeuD7XjQBY/s1600/Bugbears+pup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zIdd5h3XPlI/Uviak6-DwfI/AAAAAAAABdQ/wNeuD7XjQBY/s1600/Bugbears+pup.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Is it safe to come out yet?</em></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;At three weeks old, dwarf mongoose pups are mobile but gormless. This is Arctos (BU061).</span> </td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;</span>&nbsp;</span><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-30884868215356125842014-01-23T10:27:00.000+02:002014-01-23T10:27:58.867+02:00Oh, the ingratitudeEveryone has days when they feel unappreciated.<br />You know how it is: those around you not only take your help for granted, they then go on to presume.<br />Well this is one of those days for me.<br /><br />What’s caused this sad state of affairs?<br />Well, with the summer rain, my garden’s transformed into a jungle. The ‘lawn’ has reached head-height and the local avifauna have moved in.<br />This is not the problem.<br />I love watching the common waxbills clamber about the tussocks, scissoring off grass seeds with their redder than red bills. Down below the firefinches and blue waxbills hop about searching diligently for windfalls, and garrulous flocks of red-billed queleas swoop in to chatter and squabble among the trembling seed heads.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JAnz5OLvhOY/UuDIhFP3okI/AAAAAAAABcU/kbmU09oddAE/s1600/common+waxbill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JAnz5OLvhOY/UuDIhFP3okI/AAAAAAAABcU/kbmU09oddAE/s1600/common+waxbill.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The joys of being lawn-mowerless</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">(Common waxbill, <em>Estrilda astrild</em>)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />But these little seed eaters aren’t alone. In the wild mango, a pair of scarlet-chested sunbirds are canoodling, and tucked beneath my eaves, four families of white-rumped swifts noisily discuss the pleasures of the day.<br />But my grievances don’t rest with any of these critters.<br />It’s the garden’s tiniest feathered bug-eaters that have earned my ire.<br /><br />Now tawny-flanked prinias aren’t a species you usually notice. They flit about in the undergrowth, pausing now again, with jauntily cocked tails, to peer around for ill-fated bugs. Only if something’s bothering them do you become aware of their loud and persistent complaints: <em>przzt-przzt-przzt</em>.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfEMiCptzJo/UuDIhoZb0zI/AAAAAAAABcY/gEhqd1FPBBo/s1600/tawny+flanked++flkr+Neil+Strickland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-XfEMiCptzJo/UuDIhoZb0zI/AAAAAAAABcY/gEhqd1FPBBo/s1600/tawny+flanked++flkr+Neil+Strickland.jpg" height="281" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tawny-flanked prinias (<em>Prinia subflava</em>) are Africa’s best attempt at a fairywren. However they’re traditionalists at heart, opting for monogamy and nuclear families.</span>&nbsp;This juvenile was photographed by Neil Strickland.</td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fJk1iv7XVwc/UuDIjXa-sTI/AAAAAAAABc0/3_P9hQgjGnA/s1600/tawny+flanked+taiwan+flkr+John&amp;Fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fJk1iv7XVwc/UuDIjXa-sTI/AAAAAAAABc0/3_P9hQgjGnA/s1600/tawny+flanked+taiwan+flkr+John&amp;Fish.jpg" height="245" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tawny-flanked prinias were once thought to flutter over much of Africa, India and east Asia (<em>prinia</em> is the Javan name for the species). However, the elegant inhabitants of the orient have recently gained taxonomic independence (becoming <em>Prinia inornata</em>) - presumably to their huge relief (<em>my</em> prinias could never look this refined).</span> <br />Photo taken in Taiwan and posted on Flickr by John&amp;Fish.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was sitting on my veranda one morning, with my dogs and cat sprawled around me, when a prinia fluttered down to perch in a tangle of weeds almost at my elbow. Oh how charming, I thought, as I watched it throw out its chest excitedly and clarion its territorial <em>przzts</em>. It then zipped away, returning a moment or two later with a long, wavering grass stem.<br />Oh no, it couldn’t be... <br />Surely, not <em>there</em>... <br />But yes, it was determinedly twining the grass stem around a weed stalk.<br />I watched aghast: the creature was building a nest at perfect dog nose-height.<br /><br />Now please bear in mind that while one of my dogs (Wizard) is a dyed-in-the-wool husky who sensibly eschews feathery aperitifs in favour of whale carcasses, the other is a husky-cross. I don’t know what her husky forebear coupled with, but it was certainly purpose-bred to exterminate rodents. Magic’s blood-lust for small defenceless critters is enough to turn even Wizard’s stomach.<br />I couldn’t decide whether the kamikaze homemakers, busily weaving a nursery just 1.2 m (4 ft) away from us, were the silliest birds to fly God’s airspace... or the most fiendishly cunning.<br />What snake, what monitor, what raptor would dare attack them there??<br /><br />The pair dashed back and forth excitedly, hopping up and down on their toes and eagerly entwining leaf blades into their globe-shaped construction. Every now again one (the male?) would alight exuberantly on a weed top and <em>przzt</em> in triumph (just in case some predator <em>hadn’t</em> noticed them). I’m sure birds feel euphoric when they’re nest-building. These two just looked so, well... <em>pleased </em>with themselves.<br />﻿<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OGsEtosmUcg/UuDIfAv4smI/AAAAAAAABb8/1TuLnXDdvx4/s1600/IMG_5170.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OGsEtosmUcg/UuDIfAv4smI/AAAAAAAABb8/1TuLnXDdvx4/s1600/IMG_5170.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Hmm, scissor truss joists here I think...</em></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQr1NTpvkzM/UuDIfRmzrEI/AAAAAAAABcE/KR5t65xA8fo/s1600/IMG_5168.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-SQr1NTpvkzM/UuDIfRmzrEI/AAAAAAAABcE/KR5t65xA8fo/s1600/IMG_5168.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Both Ma and Pa prinia enjoy DIY but since they favour matching outfits (and both don their glad rags for the occasion (brighter with tail extensions)), I don’t know who this is.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtpP5-usQAo/UuDIiaNMHCI/AAAAAAAABck/dfr2pno08BM/s1600/prinia+nest2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TtpP5-usQAo/UuDIiaNMHCI/AAAAAAAABck/dfr2pno08BM/s1600/prinia+nest2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The completed nursery.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was convinced that sooner or later they’d realise the error of their ways and abandon the whole hare-brained scheme, but after a few days three tiny eggs – salmon-brown mottled with purple – appeared inside the rattan ball.<br /><br />Having borne witness to this folly, I felt obliged to assist the venture. So, for the last month, I’ve been creeping about the garden, calling my dogs away dozens of times a day, dashing outside whenever a harrier hawk or coucal drops by and generally worrying over the hatchlings’ long-term prospects. <br /><br />Now I do not expect accolades for this effort. I don’t expect the little creatures to sing my praises or bring me gifts (bugs?) or help with the housework. But their actual response left me speechless.<br /><br />I was busily working on my computer (I <em>do</em> work sometimes) when I noticed a prinia hopping past the back door. I’d seen them flitting about there before and assumed they were hunting bugs. But this one was carrying something in its beak. It hopped on to the back door step, paused, examined the step with its head on one side, looking first to the left and then to the right, and then it carefully put down its burden – placing it meticulously, <em>just so</em>. It then flew off.<br /><br />Curious, I went to see what it had been doing. <br />Bad move. <br />There, right before my door, was a little moist package of bird poop. <br />And when I looked closely I realised that the whole step was scattered with small white faecal sacs.They were using my door step as a waste dump for their nestlings’ poop!<br /><br />Now I know that most birds remove (or swallow) their ankle-biters’ droppings so they don’t attract potential chick-munchers. <br />But why put the stuff on my doorstep? <br />Do they think my house stinks so badly it will mask the faeces’ odour? <br />Why not place the goo further along the veranda amid the piles of swift droppings?&nbsp; <br />Why not put it, well... ANYWHERE else??<br /><br />Sigh.<br />I’m just NOT appreciated.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y3MEK6WIP44/UuDIff4BXrI/AAAAAAAABcA/dcfumMjtpQ0/s1600/IMG_5174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y3MEK6WIP44/UuDIff4BXrI/AAAAAAAABcA/dcfumMjtpQ0/s1600/IMG_5174.jpg" height="282" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Yeah, so?</em></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-7075782079407970682014-01-05T13:03:00.002+02:002014-01-05T13:03:48.280+02:00A festivity of stripes<span lang=""><span style="color: orange;">Then the Ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the Leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little black marks, all close together. You can see them on any Leopard's skin...</span></span><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span lang=""> </span><span lang=""><span style="color: orange;">‘<i>How the Leopard got his spots’</i> from <i>The Just So Stories.</i></span></span></div><span lang=""><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: orange;">Rudyard Kipling, 1902. </span></div><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I’ve always disliked the <i>Just So Stories</i>. <br /> As an animal-obsessed child I encountered them often but they inevitably left me feeling cheated and irritated. I <i>really</i> wanted to know why the leopard sported spots or how the elephant acquired&nbsp;its trunk and these silly tales could not enlighten me. (Maybe zoologists are born and not made??)<br /> Fortunately neither Kipling, nor Aesop, tackled the tricky question of How the Zebra got its Stripes. A San (Bushman) legend, however, attributes the charcoal stripes to singe-marks... <br /> <br />But why am I pondering equine apparel? <br /> Well, firstly it’s the festive season and what could be more festive than a zebra? <br /> Romping, head-tossing and snorting, these roly-poly creatures are guaranteed to lift one’s spirit. They’re a dazzling chimera: part mythical beast, part fairground runaway, part my-first-pony.<br /> <br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPqxv1nrdZQ/UsezEMrHS2I/AAAAAAAABZ8/U3KTgFvutO4/s1600/burchells+zebra+kruger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LPqxv1nrdZQ/UsezEMrHS2I/AAAAAAAABZ8/U3KTgFvutO4/s400/burchells+zebra+kruger.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Who can resist a zebra?</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />My second reason is that the local&nbsp;zebra mares are celebrating the season by dropping their foals. This has transformed my drive to work into a wonderful, ooh-ah experience. The new mums are cautious and they gallop off as I approach, their gangly-legged foals racing and weaving out ahead of them. The herd’s stallion trots a few paces before swinging around to confront me. Standing tall with nose lifted, ears pricked and nostrils flared, he paces forward a stride or two, doing his best to look fierce and intimidating. Once I’ve actually passed by, he wheels around and thunders off after his disappearing family.<br /> <br />Now before we start let’s get one thing straight: <i>zebra</i> is not a proper taxonomic term. In fact it’s a brazen act of colour discrimination.<br /> Zebra simply means ‘striped horse’ and it’s like using one collective name for all spotted cats or all blue birds.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> The great grandmamma of today’s six horse species galloped into existence on the North American plains about two million years ago, and then clip-clopped off to world domination. This equine granny is believed to have worn stripes and three of her great grand kids maintain traditional dress. However, these purists are no more related to one another than they are to the more individualistically attired horses and donkeys. <br />While the Grevy’s zebra (trotting about northern Kenya) is clearly an ass (no offense meant), the mountain zebra (counting down its days in the pointy bits of southern Africa) and the savannah-loving Burchell’s zebra are more closely allied to horses, enjoying the same free-wheeling lifestyle as mustangs and brumbies (i.e. itinerant harems).<br /> <br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w_cgPuUBSfo/UsezGDTalMI/AAAAAAAABak/JlrYaBB_-9w/s1600/zebra+grevy%2527s+flkr+steve+garvie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-w_cgPuUBSfo/UsezGDTalMI/AAAAAAAABak/JlrYaBB_-9w/s400/zebra+grevy%2527s+flkr+steve+garvie.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Grevy’s zebra (<i>Equus grevyi</i>) voices its dismay over its endangerment with a classic donkey’s ‘hee-haw’. As with the wild asses, stallions hold down real estate and then have their wicked way with mares that wander by. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Steve Garvie.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /> <br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ftXIR-lp3xs/UsezFzDDqbI/AAAAAAAABag/5eG1uHc7Jgs/s1600/zebra+mountain+flkr+vince+osullivan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ftXIR-lp3xs/UsezFzDDqbI/AAAAAAAABag/5eG1uHc7Jgs/s400/zebra+mountain+flkr+vince+osullivan.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The mountain zebra (<i>Equus zebra</i>) may <i>look</i> similar to the Burchell’s (give or take a dewlap and a bare tummy) but their differences run deep: the Burchell’s zebra boasts 44 chromosomes while the mountain zebra makes do with 32. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Vince O’Sullivan</span>.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wNxIOrCX2jQ/UsezD-s7iNI/AAAAAAAABaA/AGnrpgFZXLM/s1600/somali+ass+flkr+Lisa+Brown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="302" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wNxIOrCX2jQ/UsezD-s7iNI/AAAAAAAABaA/AGnrpgFZXLM/s400/somali+ass+flkr+Lisa+Brown.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The critically endangered Somali wild ass (<i>Equus africanus</i>) sired every donkey and mule on the planet; obviously a smart decision to hang on to those lewd stockings. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Lisa Brown.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />So why are some horses stripy? </span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I mean virtually every other grass-munching mammal&nbsp;favours demur browns or greys. What do zebra gain from sporting so much razzmatazz?<br /> Well, sit back and enjoy some scientific just-so-stories. <br /> <br />Black and white stripes may dazzle and confuse leaping predators, or rouse in them a sense of danger (if skunks can do it...). Those stripes may deter blood-sucking flies, act as camouflage (at a distance) or break up a zebra’s outline. They may generate cooling air currents, enhance the wearer’s sex appeal or machismo, or allow individuals to recognise their nearest and dearest (every zebra is fingerprint-unique).<br /> </span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course ‘stories’ like these are the raw material of science. Whittled away by scientific endeavour, they’ll eventually yield a shabby effigy of reality. So I’m delighted that - after centuries of speculation - researchers are finally starting to test them. <br /> <br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X3wsPUGXsYw/UsezFJFQjyI/AAAAAAAABaU/W4lQQixIwmY/s1600/stripes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="273" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-X3wsPUGXsYw/UsezFJFQjyI/AAAAAAAABaU/W4lQQixIwmY/s400/stripes.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Burchell’s (or plains) zebra (<i>Equus burchelli</i>) looks like it’s been gift-wrapped by, er... someone like me. The stripes are aligned horizontally on the back half but vertically on the front.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /><br />The old razzle-dazzle, predator-befuddling fable has been given scientific credence by </span><a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S0944200613000974" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Martin How and Johannes Zanker</span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">. Using piccies of Burchell’s zebras, they produced computer models which show that the zebra’s stripes create an optical illusion. Most animals (including you and me) have neural circuits in their brains that detect the direction an object is moving by monitoring how its contours appear. But when a zebra moves, its diagonal flank stripes, juxtaposed with the narrower vertical stripes on its neck and shoulders, produce confusing signals that flummox these motion detectors. Just like the classic barbers’ pole (whose spiral stripe appears to move upward when the pole spins), the zebra’s stripes make it appear as if the creature is moving in the wrong direction. In the pell-mell of a hunt, with multiple zebras leaping and jostling, these fickle signals may throw a lion off its stride. <br /> <br />Although it’s great to have this fable confirmed, it doesn’t <i>fully </i>explain why zebras are stripy. The problem is, not all species have the Burchell’s stripe pattern: Grevy’s zebras don’t have diagonal flank stripes, and the ill-starred quagga had no stripes at all on its back half (the bit most frequently viewed by blood-thirsty zebra-consumers).<br /><br /> <br /></span><i><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9XmngUcDdvc/UsezCfZqTWI/AAAAAAAABZs/e7DYfxLwqo8/s1600/foal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="325" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9XmngUcDdvc/UsezCfZqTWI/AAAAAAAABZs/e7DYfxLwqo8/s400/foal.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Have I got them at the back too?</span></em></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />﻿</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tLPj717lQLg/UsezE570yzI/AAAAAAAABaQ/wu5i0bQYhbI/s1600/stuffed+quagga+Berlin+wikipedia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="344" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tLPj717lQLg/UsezE570yzI/AAAAAAAABaQ/wu5i0bQYhbI/s400/stuffed+quagga+Berlin+wikipedia.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The brown quagga (a South African subspecies of the Burchell’s zebra) rashly lost many of its stripes. This sacrifice, however, failed to save it from being hunted to extinction for its skin during the 1800s. This scary spectre haunts a museum in Berlin (photo from Wikipedia).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span></i><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The bug-proofing fable has also earned itself the scientific stamp of approval. In a horse paddock in distant Hungary, Adam Egric and a whole troop of <span id="goog_721750849"></span></span><a href="http://jeb.biologists.org/content/215/5/736.abstract?sid=c7ce76d9-0382-4dfe-9fd3-0eef848ebf48" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">researchers have been testing<span id="goog_721750850"></span></span></a><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> how colour influences the avarice of horseflies (tabanid flies). By leaving out coloured boards coated in sticky bug-glue, they’ve shown that dark colours (which reflect horizontally polarised light) are much more attractive to the little winged vampires than is white (which scatters light in all directions). Yet when the researchers put out a board with black and white stripes (which does both) they were startled to find that&nbsp;it lured fewer flies than just plain white. After trying various widths of stripe, they found that typical ‘zebra-width’ (i.e. Burchell’s) attracted the fewest flies of all. As a final confirmation, they created plastic horse models, smeared them with glue and left them outside for a two-week period. They then counted the number of ensnared horseflies and found that the black model harboured 562, the brown model 334, the white 22 and the zebra-striped model 8.<br /> <br />﻿</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JvhYSSK_JhU/UsezDWY06eI/AAAAAAAABZ4/6HRaP-KOicQ/s1600/horses+fly+sticky+gabor+horvath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="223" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JvhYSSK_JhU/UsezDWY06eI/AAAAAAAABZ4/6HRaP-KOicQ/s400/horses+fly+sticky+gabor+horvath.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Sticky equids. <span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Gabor Horvath (I’m unsure of the legality of using this image but I couldn’t resist it).</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table>&nbsp;</span><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I must admit I’d be more convinced by this study if the researchers had done it with <i>African </i>bugs. Do the local tsetse flies show the same proclivities? Blood-thirsty insects can certainly pose a serious risk to their hoofed victims (because they transmit noxious illnesses) but if stripes are such an effective fly-repellent why don’t other succulent herbivores flaunt them too? And why is the Somali wild ass - who lives only a teeny bit further north than the very stripy Grevy’s zebra – unashamedly stripe-free?<br /><br />Of course, the reason that ancestral horses opted for stripes in the first place may be different from the reason that stripes are a fashion item today. And different species may hang on to their stripes for different reasons... (oh, the trials of an evolutionary biologist).</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;Helvetica Neue&quot;, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To be honest, I’d put my money on a social function being the primary one (but maybe my gregarious little mongooses have biased my thinking?). Although the stripe pattern on the&nbsp;rear half of zebras varies greatly (both between and within species), everyone looks remarkably similar up front (i.e. the bit spied by other zebras during social encounters). And we <u>all</u> know that transverse stripes make&nbsp;one look fat. Since prancing about on tippy-toe with an arched neck is standard protocol for equids out to impress, it seems very likely that stripes function to make the wearer look bigger and heftier. <br /> But of course this is just one more just-so-story until some dedicated soul heads out there with a little pot of hair dye...<br /> </span></span><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-36987988982306817292013-11-22T13:52:00.000+02:002013-11-22T13:52:24.387+02:00Halloween callers (er... belated)<br /><span lang=""><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Sorry I’ve taken such a ridiculous amount of time to upload this post...</span><br /><br />Outside North America, the heart-warming tradition of extorting candy from strangers (<i>trick or treating</i>) is often met with less than enthusiasm. A survey in the UK, for example, found that more than half of British householders turn off their lights and pretend to be out, come All Hallows Eve.<br /> But living as a hermit, tucked away in the African bush, I wasn’t expecting callers.<br />I was wrong.<br /> <br />Now trick or treating can trace its roots back to the Middle Ages, when the financially-challenged celebrated All Saints’ Day (or All Hallows’ Day) by dressing as demons and bartering prayers and songs (to help the wealthy’s departed mosey on through Purgatory) for cash and cakes. This jolly festivity was called <i>souling</i> and it was definitely a <i>souler</i> who visited my house on Halloween night. <br /> <br />But I’m jumping ahead of myself here because my exchanges with <i>soulers</i> really started a few days earlier when I was walking my dogs down along the river. At this time of year (end of the dry season) the river is braided with sand and fringed by dense thickets of reeds. It was late afternoon and heavy clouds were leaching away the light when we heard a loud, rasping grunting coming from the far bank. The dogs and I crept upstream until we were directly opposite the hidden caller and hunkered down in a thicket of raisin-bushes in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the vocalist. With no more than 30m (100 ft) between us and the vociferous beast, its deep, grating calls were deafening, thrumming uncomfortably inside my chest.<br /> <br />Embarrassingly, it took me almost six years to figure out who utters this call. I’d always assumed it was a baboon expletive (something about one’s mother??) because it inevitably invoked a cacophony of outraged bellows from the local baboon troop. But it’s actually voiced by a much more impressive beast (my apologies to all <i>Papio</i>philes). The books describe it as sounding ‘a lot like someone sawing wood’. I used to find this description unconvincing, but up close and personal, it’s spot on (in an age of chainsaws, perhaps I just don’t know what a distant wood-saw sounds like). The leopard utters its rasping ‘strokes’ while both inhaling and exhaling, and the result is shockingly loud. You can hear it <a href="http://www.africam.co.za/wildlife/soundsafricammammalsfrogstoads#leopard" target="_blank">here</a> (click on leopard), but it's a recording of very distant animal (can't find anything better however). <br /> <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vwfP4FhdIH4/Uo800P-KtRI/AAAAAAAABYo/DKxZLxKTUt8/s1600/leopard+face+a+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vwfP4FhdIH4/Uo800P-KtRI/AAAAAAAABYo/DKxZLxKTUt8/s400/leopard+face+a+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big cats (members of the genus <i>Panthera</i>) - unlike small cats (members of <i>Felis</i>) - can utter astoundingly loud roars because their hyoid bone (you know, the one that snaps during strangulation, as per<em> CSI</em>) has been replaced with cartilage. <br />Photo by Arno Meintjes.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> </span><br /><span lang=""><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xor4HP6Gztk/Uo808_WWgMI/AAAAAAAABY8/sOrazia9qVU/s1600/leopard+in+river+a+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Xor4HP6Gztk/Uo808_WWgMI/AAAAAAAABY8/sOrazia9qVU/s400/leopard+in+river+a+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leopards (<i>Panthera pardus</i>) are the most cosmopolitan of the world’s cats (apart from our little domestic moggies, of course). They prowl almost every habitat in Africa and sneak about in Asia as far as China and Malaysia. They also sometimes munch people - mostly in India and Nepal - annually killing 1.9 Nepalese per million. Photo by Arno Meintjes.<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br />&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: small;">The vocalist was hidden among the reeds by the water’s edge, and while we were trying to spot spots, I realised that the cat was actually dueting. Further upstream </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">–</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> on our side of the river </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">–</span></span><span style="font-size: small;"> another leopard was answering. Fortuitously, we were downwind of both animals and it was clear that this second leopard was hot-footing its way downstream toward us. Were the two engaged in an acoustic border dispute? Or was one of them on the make?</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br />I very much wanted to see what would happen when the two cats met. My dogs, however, weren’t too keen on the idea. I don’t know what’s changed their minds about leopards (they used to try to chase them) but these days the merest whiff of fresh leopard spoor makes them panic. They press up against each other and - glancing nervously over their shoulders - tow me away as rapidly as possible. They also now refuse to lie outside on moonless nights... <br />Thinking about it - maybe it’s better I don’t know...<br /> <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CdF1AKrZD0E/Uo800NFdFvI/AAAAAAAABY4/tpV8nTDNn_w/s1600/leopards+mating+flkr+steve+jurvetson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="327" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CdF1AKrZD0E/Uo800NFdFvI/AAAAAAAABY4/tpV8nTDNn_w/s400/leopards+mating+flkr+steve+jurvetson.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like almost all cats, leopards are solitary beasts. They stake claim to their territories using pee and song, and ferociously oust all members of their sex. <br />Photo by Steve Jurvetson.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kIEsuwcaXmA/Uo80z2-RkXI/AAAAAAAABYw/BrgVWICwFiU/s1600/leopards+mating+persian+flkr+tambako+the+jaguar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kIEsuwcaXmA/Uo80z2-RkXI/AAAAAAAABYw/BrgVWICwFiU/s400/leopards+mating+persian+flkr+tambako+the+jaguar.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She-leopards also use the species’ long-distance roar as a siren call for suitors. Like lions, leopards mate repeatedly for days at a time (he has to coax her into ovulation) but - unlike consorting lions - it’s very rare to catch them at it. <br />Photo (of captive Persian leopards) posted on Flickr by Tambako the jaguar.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /> <br /> As the leopard on our side of the river drew closer and closer, the dogs became more and more agitated, tugging frantically on their leashes. I began to wonder if I was acting prudently. I mean leopard fatalities are a rarity here in Africa but every few years the odd person gets chomped (and I’m certainly odd). In fact - I suddenly recalled as we sat hidden in our waterside thicket - a leopard attacked someone just a few weeks ago up near Pundia Maria (Kruger National Park). With the leopard on our bank no more than 50m (165 ft) off and closing fast, and the rasping roars of both cats now reverberating in our chests, Wizard’s nerve finally broke and he dragged me, sprawling, out of the shrubbery (let me tell you, huskies can <i>pull</i>). The leopard across the river immediately stopped roaring: our cover was blown. Although the cat on our bank continued to call, I figured that they wouldn’t interact normally, so I let the dogs haul me away inland. <br /> <br />Now I thought that this was the end of it. <br />But then the <i>souler</i> arrived on Halloween.<br /> <br />It was about 8pm and I was innocently watching TV when the roars began. Once again two leopards were dueting, with one far off and the other quite close. And getting closer... and closer... and CLOSER! Oh God, it’s roaring from the reeds just below my garden. Sitting no more than 15m (50 ft) from my back door, it gave its thunderous grating roars - one every three minutes or so - for more than an hour. <br /> <br />Now I don’t think this creature was seeking a treat (at least not from me) but I felt its performance would certainly hurry any passing spirits on their way, through Purgatory or otherwise. I mean leopards have harried our ancestors for millennia. Modern forensics show that at least one fossil hominid (who dwelt in South Africa 1.8 million years ago) fell victim to a leopard: the puncture wounds piercing the back of his/her skull perfectly match the bite impressions of a leopard’s lower canines. Researchers have even suggested that humans owe their intelligence to the leopard via an evolutionary arms race in which we combated stealth and might with cleverness. And I have to admit that while it was hugely exhilarating having a leopard at the bottom of my garden, it was also a little scary.<br /> A leopard just isn’t something you want to stumble over when you pop out to move the sprinkler.<br />Would that be the <i>trick</i> I wonder?<br /> Ah, spooky ol’ Halloween...<br /> <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNlgaCqzuxQ/Uo82t5PWTfI/AAAAAAAABZQ/1iI6d4lePLM/s1600/leopard+a+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ZNlgaCqzuxQ/Uo82t5PWTfI/AAAAAAAABZQ/1iI6d4lePLM/s400/leopard+a+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What better emissary to communicate with the dead than a professional killer? Photo by Arno Meintjes.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />P.S. I always carry a nifty little pepper spray when I’m out dog-walking (I thought I’d mention that for the sake of nervous relatives).<br /> <br /> </span><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-17576552469278908672013-09-29T13:37:00.000+02:002013-09-30T11:25:47.417+02:00Avoiding the bathroom<br />Before I begin, I’d like to apologise if this blog post is a little... er... disjointed.<br />Or a touch confused.<br />Or just plain...&nbsp; <em>jittery</em>.<br /><br />You see I’m currently sitting hunched in front of my computer with my legs tightly crossed, jiggling. While half my brain ponders this blog post, the other half is quietly chanting, Sheldon-like,<br />‘I am the Master of my bladder...’ <br />It’s not true of course. In any showdown, my gross bodily functions inevitably triumph.<br />So why don’t I just go and, er... relieve myself?<br /><br />Because when I visit my toilet, I AM NOT ALONE.<br /><br />No, the marbled tree snake has not moved back into my <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2011/06/this-morning-i-showered-with-murderer.html" target="_blank">shower cubicle</a> (actually I don’t even <em>have</em> a shower cubicle). The problem is smaller. But more numerous...<br /><br />You see, dwelling within my toilet is a community of bubbling kassinas. <br />Now I know this probably won’t mean much to you. <br />It even sounds quite pleasant, doesn’t it? Drifts of tiny aquatic flowers maybe, garlanded with little silver bubbles? <br />Well you can forget that. Bubbling kassinas are frogs. <br />Little frogs; cute frogs; but <em>FROGS</em>!<br /><br />Okay, I realise that when you live in the tropics, toilet-dwelling amphibians are humdrum and routine. But those are<em> tree</em> frogs. Those are frogs that hop about and clamber up the porcelain because it’s a cool place to chill. They aren’t aquatic frogs. They don’t come sculling in, underwater, from the dreadful lower reaches of the septic tank. They don’t circumnavigate the toilet bowl, in unhurried breaststroke – while you’re using it – and then dive deftly back down the outlet pipe.<br />Call me old fashioned, but I find that disconcerting.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CpnfBeROL8I/UkgIR8zc5rI/AAAAAAAABYI/j4PqFwetrfs/s1600/kassina+bubbling+flkr+vivi+bolin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="305" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CpnfBeROL8I/UkgIR8zc5rI/AAAAAAAABYI/j4PqFwetrfs/s400/kassina+bubbling+flkr+vivi+bolin.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bubbling kassinas (<em>Kassina senegalensis</em>) are also known as running frogs (because they’re a bit anatomically-challenged). The critters trot about over much of sub-Saharan Africa but it’s still unclear whether they all belong to one big, happy <strike>family</strike> species. <br />Photo posted on Flickr by Vivi Bolin.</td></tr></tbody></table><span id="goog_1669182410"></span><span id="goog_1669182411"></span><br />Look I’m not denying that bubbling kassinas are agreeable little frogs. Just 4 cm (1.6") long, they could have crept straight out of a Peanuts cartoon: their smiling, snub-nosed faces make up almost half their total being. They swim about wearing glossy wetsuits of yellow, cream or silver grey, flamboyantly adorned with black go-faster stripes. But most impressive of all are their massive eyes: burnished-gold with an inky black cat’s pupil. <br /><br />Frog’s eyes, of course, don’t just <em>look</em> weird. Fitted out with rods and cones, they let the frog see in colour, but - unlike in a&nbsp;mammal's eye - the lens doesn’t flex to focus on objects at differing distances. Instead it trundles back and forth within the eyeball to adjust the focal length. Oh, and frogs’ eyes also aid in digestion. When a frog is scoffing down a bulky prey item, it retracts its eyeballs into its mouth cavity, giving the hapless victim an extra shove&nbsp;down the gullet. <br />Now that’s what I call gob smacking.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sge2NwraVfI/UkgIR3_xw-I/AAAAAAAABYM/QrO31Oj84tA/s1600/2+kassinas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sge2NwraVfI/UkgIR3_xw-I/AAAAAAAABYM/QrO31Oj84tA/s400/2+kassinas.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The skin cells of frogs are peppered with colourful <em>chromatophores</em> that can be corralled or dispersed&nbsp;within the cell to alter the frogs’ colour. One type, <em>iridiophores</em>, are silvery, reflecting light back through the other pigments to give the frog a vibrant ‘inner glow’. These kassinas are dressed for (left) the dark, chilly depths of the septic tank&nbsp;and (right) the warm, sunlit waters of the toilet bowl.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Sometimes I’m lulled into believing the toilet is ‘unoccupied’ only to find that the little beasts have crept up under the porcelain rim. When&nbsp;I press 'flush', they&nbsp;come whooshing down in a swirl of white-water, limbs akimbo like a granny in a waterslide. When I can, I fish the creatures out (NOT pleasant) and release them carefully into one of the water dishes I maintain (for no apparent reason) in the garden. But after repeated ‘rescue missions’, I began to wonder. <br />Was I translocating the same frog over and over? <br />Unwisely, I started photographing their back patterns... <br /><br />Argh! There are hundreds of the creatures!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-la5CTwvsAgM/UkgIS92DyvI/AAAAAAAABYY/oZEy9lqK0Ac/s1600/kassina.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-la5CTwvsAgM/UkgIS92DyvI/AAAAAAAABYY/oZEy9lqK0Ac/s400/kassina.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kassina number 15. According to my frog book, bubbling kassinas hang out in temporary and permanent water bodies, including vleis, marshes, pans, ponds and dams. Please note the conspicuous absence of indoor plumbing. Is this an oversight or are my frogs eccentric?</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The rains haven’t yet arrived this season, so&nbsp;the squatters in my bathroom&nbsp;are blessedly mute. Like most frogs, macho bubbling kassinas have two different croaks.<br />The first is a love song (a short, rising <em>boip</em> which you can listen to&nbsp;<a href="http://www.africam.co.za/wildlife/soundsafricammammalsfrogstoads#bubblingkassina" target="_blank">here</a>) whose lyrics go: “I am WONDERFUL and I’m waiting here just for you” (okay, I can’t guarantee this is <em>absolutely</em> verbatim). <br />The other ditty, which has more of a punk rock feel, is sung to fellow choristers: “Piss off you mongrel, this is MY bloody podium!”<br /><br />The problem with all this fine operatic communication is that the intended recipient may not be able to hear you above the racket. I mean when the rains come, there can be ten different species all bellowing out their serenades down by the water. But bubbling kassinas are wily. Firstly, they adhere to the <em>early birds</em> adage and begin calling in the late afternoon when everyone else is still abed. Secondly, they avoid the Idol's try-out scrum down at the poolside, secreting themselves in the shrubbery well back from the water. It’s out here, where it’s less noisy, that they rendezvous with potential lovers, and – if their song is sexy enough – then accompany their ladylove down to the water.<br /><br />However, there’s a flaw in this plan. When one lusty kassina <em>boips</em>, his neighbours can’t resist doing it too, and while this creates a lovely rippling or bubbling effect (hence the frog’s name), it’s probably teeth-grindingly annoying to amorous gentlemen (yes, most frogs <em>do</em> have small teeth; some even have vomerine teeth that sprout from the roof of their mouth). In an effort to get a word in edgewise, male kassinas serenade antiphonally; that is, they carefully utter their <em>boips</em> in the space between the <em>boips</em> of their rivals. Begging meerkat pups use the same technique; in fact experiments show that adult meerkats bring more food to a speaker playing two pups begging antiphonally than to the same two begging simultaneously (I warned you I’d have trouble staying focussed tonight).<br /><br />Now I don’t know what all this means for my effluent dwellers. Will the males position themselves around my lounge and kitchen, singing their hearts out from my bookshelves and stove? Will female kassinas come scratching at the windows like Cathy’s ghost? And will&nbsp;lovelorn couples then converge on my bathroom to indulge in hot amplexus in the toilet bowl?&nbsp; <br />Hmm, something to look forward to I guess...<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ds6qSAC2nSs/UkgIRiyblpI/AAAAAAAABYE/F7sxM_Yh9ik/s1600/kassina++bubbling+flkr+liesvanrompaey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="301" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ds6qSAC2nSs/UkgIRiyblpI/AAAAAAAABYE/F7sxM_Yh9ik/s400/kassina++bubbling+flkr+liesvanrompaey.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Female bubbling kassinas lay 100 to 500 eggs.&nbsp; OH GOD! <br />Photo posted on Flickr by liesvanrompaey.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I was planning to tell you all about the kassinas’ <em>ugly duckling</em> tadpoles who look so similar to tiny fish that metamorphosis&nbsp;must come as a real shock to them. However, the prospect of a toilet bowl brimming with tadpoles (even spiffy goldfish-like ones) is too distressing to contemplate. Additionally, I couldn’t find a SINGLE image of the little creatures anywhere on the internet. I’ve resolved that when my resident kassinas <em>do</em> become parents, I’ll take a photo of their ankle-nibblers (come Hell or high water – oh yuk!) and post it – free for use – all over cyberspace.<br />&nbsp; <br />Actually, the real reason I’m finishing up now is because I’m afraid I’m going succumb to major renal problems if I don’t IMMEDIATELY go and pollute my kassinas' home... <br /><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-7101604472826136692013-08-26T13:10:00.001+02:002013-09-29T13:41:27.843+02:00Archaeopteryx meets Priscilla<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span lang="EN-GB">Ask people to name an iconic African bird and you’ll likely wind up with a whole lake-rim of flamingos and ostriches, plus maybe a ground hornbill or guineafowl thrown in for luck (ahh</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span lang="EN-GB">h</span><span lang="EN-GB">hh</span></span><span lang="EN-GB">... splosh).</span></span><br /><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But of all the myriad feathered critters cluttering the airspace of this continent, there are only two orders who flutter here and nowhere else: the mousebirds and the turacos.</span></span><br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’ve already sung the praises of cute little <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2010/07/avian-chimera.html" target="_blank">mousebirds</a>, so today I’ll take you down to the river to meet one of the weirdest birds I know.</span></span></div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A creature of the forest, around here it lives only in the verdant tangle of trees along the riverbank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>As you pass beneath the towering leadwoods, jackal berries and figs, you’ll hear its eerie kok-kok-kok-kok-kok call (which rises, in strength and pitch, to a deafening crescendo) reverberate through the gloom (you can also experience it <a href="http://robertsonline.co.za/bird/21310/21310-2.asp" target="_blank">here</a>). </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Carefully scan the smooth upper branches of that giant fig... but no... </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Wait... there!</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In that water berry, there’s movement.</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A large ungainly bird suddenly lopes out along a branch, swaying slightly from side to side as it runs towards you. At first it looks to be black, its long wedge-shaped tail dark against the sky, but as it paces through a splash of sunlight you see its flamboyant plumage: iridescent purples and greens with a flush of rose rising on its breast. Without pausing stride, it leaps over a gap and halts abruptly on a branch directly above you. For a moment it shifts uncertainly from foot to foot, craning first left, then right, trying to catch sight of you. Then, cocking its head on one side, it peers down with one carmine-encircled eye, raising its raffish violet crest (a movement suggestive of arching an eyebrow) and fixes you with a fierce quizzical glower. </span></span><br /><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is the purple-crested turaco.</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If it decides you’re scary enough, you’re in for a real treat. </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After a moment of dithering, running and hopping, it opens its stubby, rounded wings to unfurl a dazzling pageant of scarlet. It then launches into an elegant, balletic leap and glides away to a nearby tree. (I couldn’t find an ‘available-for-use’ image of the bird in flight - and of course snapping one is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i> beyond me - but please take a look at <a href="http://robertsonline.co.za/bird/21310/21310-3.asp" target="_blank">this one</a>; it’s worth it.)</span></span><br /><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></o:p></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll6vW3-L3k8/Uhsm95N2MvI/AAAAAAAABWc/RwESp4mVXCI/s1600/purple+crested+turaco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="316" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ll6vW3-L3k8/Uhsm95N2MvI/AAAAAAAABWc/RwESp4mVXCI/s400/purple+crested+turaco.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Running through the treetops, the purple-crested turaco (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gallirex porphyreolopha</i>) bears a distressing resemblance to the world’s earliest feathered aviators.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_Mfm426k4U/Uhsm8k8ww9I/AAAAAAAABWU/3ABD9c3XN24/s1600/turaco+chick+Ross%2527s+flickr+SeaworldSA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y_Mfm426k4U/Uhsm8k8ww9I/AAAAAAAABWU/3ABD9c3XN24/s400/turaco+chick+Ross%2527s+flickr+SeaworldSA.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Young turacos (this one’s an up-and-coming Ross’s turaco) even bear gnarly claws on their wing joints (used for pre-flight travel). They sensibly lose these primordial mementos in the embarrassment of adolescence. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo posted on Flickr by SeaworldSA.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67PF8gZb9ZM/Uhsm666tj0I/AAAAAAAABWI/1ep_wnZDSFo/s1600/purple+crested+turaco+flkr+vince+smith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-67PF8gZb9ZM/Uhsm666tj0I/AAAAAAAABWI/1ep_wnZDSFo/s400/purple+crested+turaco+flkr+vince+smith.jpg" width="388" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The turacos’ proficiency at tree-clambering is aided and abetted by a weird, reversible outer toe. This accessory normally sits at right angles to the axis of the foot, but can be swivelled fore or aft, depending on need. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Vince Smith.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Turacos are members of an ancient order (Musophagiformes) and - since they keep themselves to themselves - no one really knows who their relatives are. The proteins in their eye-lenses (hey, the first place you’d look, really) hint at kinship with songbirds, their feather parasites are cousins to those on itchy fowls and their strange, swivel toes place cuckoos in their ancestry. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But as far as I’m concerned, they’re like no other. There’s something absurd and incongruous about their awkward, cumbersome shape coupled with&nbsp;such over-the-top plumage. They somehow remind me of avian drag queens, and I’m always half expecting them to break into an Abba dance routine. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, it’s entirely inappropriate to question the purple-cresteds’ sexual predilections: they’re highly conventional birds. Living in old-school nuclear families, they’re unflinchingly monogamous and defend their home turf (very noisily) from anyone who may disrupt their conservative familial bliss.</span></span></div><br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿<br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ufCrRYE6h0o/Uhsm4KFLadI/AAAAAAAABVw/3aFB8R0lYMY/s1600/courtship+feeding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="356" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ufCrRYE6h0o/Uhsm4KFLadI/AAAAAAAABVw/3aFB8R0lYMY/s400/courtship+feeding.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I included these dreadful images (typical of my</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;photographic prowess) because they show </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(in a blurry way) courtship feeding. It sounds so romantic, doesn’t it?</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;Then you realise he’s hacking up regurgitated fruit pulp...</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUnO70cvtAU/Uhsm4x04v0I/AAAAAAAABV4/EcG0RZ7sOAc/s1600/gratitude.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="366" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUnO70cvtAU/Uhsm4x04v0I/AAAAAAAABV4/EcG0RZ7sOAc/s400/gratitude.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Nevertheless she seems grateful. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe it’s because she knows there’s </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">worse to come. Parent turacos not only </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">chomp their little darlings’ old eggshells, </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">they gulp down their excrement too.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now if turacos are the closet transvestites of the avian world, it’s the way they come up with their extravagant costumes that’s earned them global notoriety. You see turacos are the only feathered critters able to wear green. Lesser birds may <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">look</i> green but it’s all a con. While others achieve their verdant hues using yellow feathers (structured to refract sunlight and reflect blue wave lengths), turacos manufacture a genuine green pigment, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">turacoverd. </i>This unique colorant is a copper uroporphyrin compound made up of 6% copper. The birds’ brilliant red wing feathers (found in most of the forest-dwelling species) are also designer-made, tinted with another exclusive copper-based stain, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">turacin. </i>(The rest of the world’s birds must make do with carotenoids, for bright, orangey reds, and phaeomelanins, for rusty reds). But accumulating so much copper is challenging (so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i> who’s stealing the telephone cables...) and it takes young turacos twelve months to grow as gaudy as their parents (cable theft is slow work?). It’s even been suggested that turacos are only able to employ copper-based pigments because they dwell in one of the world’s richest copper belts.</span></span></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;</span></o:p></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KO1YA6j6bq4/Uhsm6p9TzpI/AAAAAAAABWE/ns8fSsg6eA0/s1600/phalaborwa+mine+flkr+Roman+Betik.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KO1YA6j6bq4/Uhsm6p9TzpI/AAAAAAAABWE/ns8fSsg6eA0/s400/phalaborwa+mine+flkr+Roman+Betik.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The local copper Mecca: humans have been mining the stuff around here for more than 1200 years. This is the Phalaborwa copper mine, about 60 km (37 miles) up the road.</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;Photo by Roman Betik.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></div><span lang="EN-GB"></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-brn2P5XiGtE/UhsnCOlR5NI/AAAAAAAABXM/cdSanY9IfFE/s1600/turaco+purple-crested+flkr+lip+kee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-brn2P5XiGtE/UhsnCOlR5NI/AAAAAAAABXM/cdSanY9IfFE/s400/turaco+purple-crested+flkr+lip+kee.jpg" width="318" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pride of the kingdom. The purple-crested turaco (Gallirex <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">porphyreolopha) </i>is Swaziland’s national bird. But fame and fortune come at a cost: the species’ dazzling flight feathers feature prominently in the ceremonial regalia of&nbsp;the Swazi and Zulu royal families. </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Lip Kee.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course turacos are not alone in using copper to brighten up their world. Humans have been daubing this metal about ever since those old winos, the ancient Greeks, discovered how to cook up verdigris (expose copper plates to the fumes of fermenting grapes, then scrape off the crust of blue-green tarnish). Unfortunately humankind subsequently went astray (oh, that’s unusual) creating killer wallpaper throughout the 19<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>C using a copper-arsenic dye (Napoleon’s emerald walls probably hastened his demise: studies show his hair samples are chockfull of arsenic).</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sadly, this pigment was also used to tint clothing, sweets and deserts. A mass poisoning in Greennock, Scotland (where green confectionary was all the go during village celebrations) spawned a national aversion to green sweets (and I’ve indeed met a Sparkle-scoffing Scot who staunchly refused the green ones). Nevertheless, it’s all OK. Once our forebears figured out the perils of snacking on arsenic they converted their lovely green dye into an insecticide...</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"></span><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xdhs9bgTIHI/UhsnB3vFL6I/AAAAAAAABXI/WNlw79-JDPg/s1600/turaco+knysna+flkr+Johann+du+Preez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Xdhs9bgTIHI/UhsnB3vFL6I/AAAAAAAABXI/WNlw79-JDPg/s400/turaco+knysna+flkr+Johann+du+Preez.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are 23 species of turaco (all native to deepest, darkest Africa) and I couldn’t resist showing you how spiffy they are. This demur little one is a Knysna turaco (<em>Tauraco corythax</em>) from, well, Knysna in South Africa.</span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">&nbsp;Photo by Johann du Preez.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TcAllElDsd4/UhsnENRC7rI/AAAAAAAABXg/RQc5Fm1Nffg/s1600/turaco+white+cheeked+flkr+Loren+Sztager.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TcAllElDsd4/UhsnENRC7rI/AAAAAAAABXg/RQc5Fm1Nffg/s400/turaco+white+cheeked+flkr+Loren+Sztager.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“What do you mean, you’ve never HEARD of turacos!” </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo (of a white-cheeked turaco, <em>Tauraco leucotis</em>) by Loren Sztager.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"></span>&nbsp;</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_fyi4myEaQ/UhsnDThnyBI/AAAAAAAABXY/IuBVieFjTw4/s1600/turaco+red-crested+flickr+Ciaran+Dunston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V_fyi4myEaQ/UhsnDThnyBI/AAAAAAAABXY/IuBVieFjTw4/s400/turaco+red-crested+flickr+Ciaran+Dunston.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like all turacos, the red-crested (<em>Tauraco erythrolophus</em>) from Angola likes to munch fruit, flowers and buds. They’re such committed fruitarians that they even feed their chicks mostly just fruit pulp. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Ciaran Dunston. </span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xldGK5AqqUY/Uhsm_JyP-VI/AAAAAAAABWs/MsLnbtShZSQ/s1600/turaco+great+blue+flkr+Brent+Moore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xldGK5AqqUY/Uhsm_JyP-VI/AAAAAAAABWs/MsLnbtShZSQ/s400/turaco+great+blue+flkr+Brent+Moore.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Turacos once laboured under the name of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plantain-eaters</i> until ornithologists realised they didn’t. This one’s a great blue turaco (<em>Corythaeola cristata</em>) at home in the Congo jungle. </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Brent Moore.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br />﻿﻿﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fl0KC7jCpiU/Uhsm3yUi_iI/AAAAAAAABVs/z05S5G47FRQ/s1600/goawaybird+flkr+arno+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fl0KC7jCpiU/Uhsm3yUi_iI/AAAAAAAABVs/z05S5G47FRQ/s400/goawaybird+flkr+arno+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As well as the brightly coloured forest species, there are a few drab turacos who knock about in open woodland (the unfortunately named go-away-birds). But what these species lack in garishness they make up for in behavioural peculiarities. The grey go-away-bird (<em>Corythaixoides concolor</em>),&nbsp;who lives&nbsp;around here, often breeds in cooperative groups.</span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Arno Meintjes.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lA2Ff9pMKk0/UhsnB5_l_TI/AAAAAAAABXQ/nNpuzuQjIfo/s1600/turaco+livingstons+flkr+Heather+Paul.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="302" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lA2Ff9pMKk0/UhsnB5_l_TI/AAAAAAAABXQ/nNpuzuQjIfo/s400/turaco+livingstons+flkr+Heather+Paul.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Livingston’s turaco, I presume (<em>Tauraco livingstoni</em>). This species explores the forests of southern Tanzania and Malawi. </span></span><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Heather Paul.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CRrHE9X4fnY/Uhsm87eAJVI/AAAAAAAABWY/dgf3-OdcxVo/s1600/turaco+Ross%2527s+flkr+San+Diego+shooter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CRrHE9X4fnY/Uhsm87eAJVI/AAAAAAAABWY/dgf3-OdcxVo/s400/turaco+Ross%2527s+flkr+San+Diego+shooter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ross’s turaco (<em>Musophaga rossae</em>) ready for the mardi gras. <span lang="EN-GB">Longevity is one of the turaco's many claims to fame&nbsp;with captive ones surviving more than 30 years. </span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Photo posted on Flickr by San Diego shooter.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB">&nbsp;</span></div><span lang="EN-GB"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZL2jfFyQro/Uhsm_sH9GtI/AAAAAAAABW4/L_Hu4BbbgZw/s1600/turaco+hautlabs+flkr+Francesco+Veronesi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EZL2jfFyQro/Uhsm_sH9GtI/AAAAAAAABW4/L_Hu4BbbgZw/s400/turaco+hautlabs+flkr+Francesco+Veronesi.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Hartlaub’s turaco (<em>Tauraco hartlaubi</em>) leaps about in the forests of the Kenyan highlands. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Photo by Francesco Veronesi.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span></span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x-VxxL1kj6g/Uhsm_Hp5K-I/AAAAAAAABW0/jyvxfBnN20w/s1600/turaco+great+blue+flkr+belgianchocolate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x-VxxL1kj6g/Uhsm_Hp5K-I/AAAAAAAABW0/jyvxfBnN20w/s400/turaco+great+blue+flkr+belgianchocolate.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Mama mia, here we go again... my, my... how can I resist you?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span></span></span><br /><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Photo posted on Flickr by Belgianchocolate.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span>&nbsp;</div></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-91527506186170404422013-08-05T09:19:00.000+02:002013-08-05T09:19:58.080+02:00BeedevilledI’m sure you’ve seen those documentaries about social insects where the camera snakes you down into the depths of the colony and there - lit by a ghostly green glow - you witness eerie fungal gardens, ants herding caterpillars and grotesque monarchs stuffing themselves on delicacies.<br /><br />Well at the moment I feel as if I’ve somehow got trapped down there.<br /><br />It all started a few days ago when I arrived home to find my living room abuzz.<br />Literally.<br />As I opened the front door the sound hit me like a palpable wave; a droning, wrap-around buzz so intense I could almost see it. <br />There were bees everywhere. The air was thick with them. They were hovering and crawling and revving for takeoff. There were bees doing their waggle dance, pirouetting and tangoing within a circle of spectators; there were bees conferring quietly in small huddles and bees sitting calmly in apparent contemplation. The windows were coated, inside and out, with a mass of small bodies, but – and this worried me the most - they weren’t angry bees, striving to get out. Disconcertingly, they all had a laidback, we-want-to-be-here kind of manner. <br />All my pets had retreated outside and were looking as dismayed as I felt. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FBN11oXiyK4/Uf4m7ryk5-I/AAAAAAAABUg/codyTD3Au10/s1600/bee+flkr+Goshzilla-Dann.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FBN11oXiyK4/Uf4m7ryk5-I/AAAAAAAABUg/codyTD3Au10/s400/bee+flkr+Goshzilla-Dann.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of the 20,000 known species of bee (argh!), only seven are honey bees (all in the genus <em>Apis</em>). This select group (whose colonies cache honey is waxy combs) is thought to have originated in SE Asia, and our much loved common honeybee (<em>Apis mellifera</em>) started life in tropical east Africa before buzzing on northward. <br />Photo posted on Flickr by Goshzilla-Dann.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />What was going on? <br />Had a swarm settled in my house? <br />I prowled disconsolately through the bee-clouded rooms, searching vainly for the tell-tale ball of bees. Then I tried following one of the bustling trade routes, and the hovering, buzzing hordes led me slowly back to my mealworm colony (housed in large plastic basins on top of a cupboard in the lounge room). Peering into a basin I was appalled to find a seething mass of bees, all rolling and writhing in apparent ecstasy, among the mealworms.<br />What the...??<br />Had I stumbled upon some dreadful orgy; a bizarre bacchanalia of miscegenation?&nbsp; <br />Then I noticed that the writhing bees looked as if they were wearing cargo-pants whose bulging pockets were stuffed with something white.<br />Ah ha!&nbsp; (A light bulb moment.)<br />They were gathering flour!<br /><br />Err... flour??<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XTqSabrybcE/Uf4m9R3JniI/AAAAAAAABU8/y1lN5BeQYhU/s1600/bees+gathering+flour.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XTqSabrybcE/Uf4m9R3JniI/AAAAAAAABU8/y1lN5BeQYhU/s400/bees+gathering+flour.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bees sifting flour from my mealworms’ bran.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Tentatively edging my way through the miasma of bees in the kitchen, I discovered another orgiastic clump squirming about in an open pack of maize meal. <br />Why had I never heard of bees behaving like this?<br />I mean, sure, bees show an unhealthy interest in sweet beverages. But dry goods? And it’s not as if I’m a complete neophyte when it comes to bees. As a child I shared home and hearth with a feral swarm (which resided in the chimney). Bee-stings were a routine hazard of television viewing, but never once did the little beasts attempt to pilfer our baking supplies.<br /><br />With a reckless disregard for personal safety, I grabbed up the flour-bearing items and rushed them out to the veranda. A stream of bees accompanied me, and I prayed that the thousands still humming about inside the house would follow the food.<br /><br />Could it be that they were starving? It’s been a bad year for bugs (as my skinny mongooses can attest); maybe the colony has scoffed its winter honey stores and is simply desperate?&nbsp; <br />But then I looked at the exuberance of daisies currently blooming in my garden. <br />Nary a bee. <br />Hmm...<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1KpQgygMmmY/Uf4m--jl_UI/AAAAAAAABVU/5x-Qtyox7FM/s1600/namaqua+daisies.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1KpQgygMmmY/Uf4m--jl_UI/AAAAAAAABVU/5x-Qtyox7FM/s400/namaqua+daisies.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My scorned Namaqua daisies.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_atiOH0BUvA/Uf4m_pILsuI/AAAAAAAABVc/2TIXS3WWD7U/s1600/pollinator.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_atiOH0BUvA/Uf4m_pILsuI/AAAAAAAABVc/2TIXS3WWD7U/s400/pollinator.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Evidence that <em>other </em>pollinators find&nbsp;my daisies attractive.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Craftily I moved the mealworm basins in amongst the flowers, hoping the bees might get the hint.<br />They didn’t.<br />But at least they all drifted out of the house, gathering in a massive, swirling column above the victuals. I discovered that if I laid out a smorgasbord of titbits (sugar water, maize meal and an open packet of cake flour), they deserted my traumatised mealworms and I was able to sneak the containers back indoors. <br />To what extent my mealworms have been scarred by this ghastly experience, I do not know. Caterpillars go off their food when bees buzz overhead (nibbling only one-third as much as usual). But the species used in this <a href="http://phenomena.nationalgeographic.com/2008/12/22/buzzing-bees-scare-caterpillars-away-from-plants/">experiment</a> (beet armyworms) sport special sensory hairs that respond to the vibration of buzzing wings (to track incoming parasitic wasps). As far as I know, my mealworms are hairless, so maybe they’ll make a full recovery.<br /><br />Of course the bees are behaving&nbsp;most amicably and I remain unstung. However, the psychological impact on my dogs may be a problem. It was while I was fishing drowning bees out of a 0.5 mm smear of sugar water, that I noticed Wizard staring at me with a look of astonished disbelief. He’d come dashing over to interpose himself between me and whoever I was talking to (as alpha male he feels he has the right of veto), only to discover I was <em>conversing with bees</em>. Since then his attitude to our insect plague has changed: whenever a bee buzzes him, or lands in his bowl, or entangles in his fur, he fixes me with a look of profound reproach.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AlTNq1PWcNc/Uf4m-C1W8_I/AAAAAAAABVI/6CZZO8zIW4Q/s1600/kruger+elephants.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AlTNq1PWcNc/Uf4m-C1W8_I/AAAAAAAABVI/6CZZO8zIW4Q/s400/kruger+elephants.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">‘Hey look: it's a&nbsp;squashed bee!’<br />My dogs aren’t alone in disliking bees. When <a href="http://phenomena.nationalgeographic.com/2009/09/25/buzzing-bees-scare-elephants-away/">researchers played</a> bee recordings to herds of snoozing elephants, the pachyderms immediately fled the scene, retreating about 60 m (200 ft) with their tails in the air. This little guy, however, hasn’t fallen victim to a bee (or car); he’s just annoying Mum by playing on the road.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now it’s no surprise that bees are well-equipped to garner pollen (and flour?) but they’ve got one adaptation that’s genuinely electrifying. When bees zip around in their busy buzzing way, their bodies are bombarded by dust motes and other little bits of air-borne grunge. These minor collisions scrape electrons off the bee’s outer waxy cuticle and, voila, you get a positively charged bee. Flowers - in contrast to bees - sport a negative electrical field (at least on sunny days) and we all know how opposites attract. So when a positive little bee comes hovering down, the flower’s pollen flies up to the bee, like iron filings to a magnet.<br /><br />But the niftiness doesn’t stop there. <br />Bees can also <a href="http://phenomena.nationalgeographic.com/2013/02/21/bees-can-sense-the-electric-fields-of-flowers/">discern the electrical fields</a> of flowers. When a conscientious worker bee touches down on a bloom, she neutralises its negative charge, and it takes a couple of minutes for the flower’s negativity to restore itself (rather like when I&nbsp;eat a piece of chocolate). This means that bees zooming about above a field of flowers can spot which ones have just been plundered and save themselves a <strike>fruitless</strike> nectarless visit.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UKpQkv6bHmw/Uf4m8vcS8tI/AAAAAAAABU0/atLwBRT7y2g/s1600/bee+flkr+johan+j.+Ingles-Le+Nobel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UKpQkv6bHmw/Uf4m8vcS8tI/AAAAAAAABU0/atLwBRT7y2g/s400/bee+flkr+johan+j.+Ingles-Le+Nobel.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It’s the bees’ flagella (the very tips of their antennae) that sense electrical fields. Pushed or pulled by an electrical charge, the flagellum’s tiny movements are monitored by touch-sensitive fibres within the bee’s antenna joints. When <a href="http://phenomena.nationalgeographic.com/2013/03/26/honeybees-can-move-each-other-with-electric-fields/">researchers </a>unkindly immobilised these joints (by covering them with wax), the bees could no longer tell positive from negative.<br />Photo posted on Flickr by Johan J. Ingles-Le Nobel.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />I have decided that today is D-day. I’m withdrawing all aid. I’ve carefully hidden my mealworm containers away inside my wardrobe (hey, who needs clothes?) and have locked up all cereal products. <br />Fingers crossed that the bees will leave!<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJAVbkN9T0Y/Uf4m8OaCBvI/AAAAAAAABUs/jbYEuqEE5yI/s1600/bees+flkr+gwendolyn+stansbury.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VJAVbkN9T0Y/Uf4m8OaCBvI/AAAAAAAABUs/jbYEuqEE5yI/s400/bees+flkr+gwendolyn+stansbury.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet-toothed, mead-guzzling humans have kept&nbsp;<em>Apis mellifera</em> for at least 3000 years. Archaeologists uncovered 30 hives (made of straw and unbaked clay) dating from about 900 BC at a dig in Israel’s Jordan Valley. However, it wasn’t until the 18-19th century that people learnt how to pinch the honey without killing the golden <strike>goose</strike> colony. Photo by Gwendolyn Stansbury.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iEjei2xOHqM/Uf4m-Y0uSrI/AAAAAAAABVM/flyekmSFy60/s1600/little+bee-eaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iEjei2xOHqM/Uf4m-Y0uSrI/AAAAAAAABVM/flyekmSFy60/s400/little+bee-eaters.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The local little bee-eater family (<em>Merops pusilla</em>): possible justification for indoor foraging?</td></tr></tbody></table>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-4071350044282044282013-07-19T13:59:00.000+02:002013-07-20T20:13:21.408+02:00Dwarf mongooses: warts and all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span lang=""></span>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span lang="">After seven and a half years working with dwarf mongooses (<i>Helogale parvula)</i>, today I discovered the meaning of their scientific name.</span></div><span lang="">And I’m outraged!</span><br /><br /><span lang="">Their dreadful scientific moniker was bestowed upon them back in 1847 by Carl Jacob Sundevall. Dr Sundevall was a Swedish ornithologist (yes, that’s right, ornithologist) who was working as curator of the Natural History Museum of Stockholm at the time of his ghastly misjudgement. </span><br /><br /><br /><span lang=""><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Csx9IM4qGOM/UekhAs19rgI/AAAAAAAABTM/gbymlTFCSWI/s1600/Sundevall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Csx9IM4qGOM/UekhAs19rgI/AAAAAAAABTM/gbymlTFCSWI/s400/Sundevall.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The culprit.</span> Image from Wikipedia.</td></tr></tbody></table></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><span lang="">Now let’s be clear. I have nothing against Sundevall’s choice of a species name, <i>parvula</i>.<br /><br />In Latin <i>parv </i>means little, and <i>ula </i>is a diminutive form; so that’s <i>little, little</i>.<br />And there’s no question that dwarf mongooses are wee. Even at the height of summer when they’re at their chubbiest, adults clock in at only 270-300g (10 oz). They’re not only the teeniest of the globe’s 31 mongoose species (they’re only one-third the size of meerkats, for example), they’re also Africa’s most petite carnivore. <br /><br /><br /> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7tpHleRV1bs/UekhyDaUE9I/AAAAAAAABTw/VywDeP5tE_w/s1600/weighing+doxy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="385" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7tpHleRV1bs/UekhyDaUE9I/AAAAAAAABTw/VywDeP5tE_w/s400/weighing+doxy.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chimera (EM061) and Doxy (EM066) helping me to document their&nbsp;littleness.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span lang=""> </span></div><span lang="">No, no, it’s the genus name, <i>Helogale</i>, that I have problems with.</span><br /><span lang="">In Latin <i>gale </i>means weasel. </span><br /><span lang="">Mongooses are NOT weasels. </span><br /><span lang="">Mongooses do not even belong to the weasel family (the pesky mustelids).</span><br /><span lang="">Heck, they don’t even <i>like</i> weasels!</span><br /><br /><span lang="">If the mongooses held a family reunion, you’d see genets and aardwolves, linsangs and banded palm civets. There’d be hyenas, overseeing the braai (BBQ), and civets griping endlessly about the perfume industry. The binturong would be annoying everyone by picking up party nibbles with its tail, and the toddy cat, who’s had too much to drink (again), would be delighting the kids with unsavoury re-enactments of kopi luwak manufacture. Even the Madagascan contingent would be there: the falanouc pontificating about earthworms with the white-tailed mongoose, and the fossas and meerkats locked in heated debate over media bias.</span><br /><span lang=""></span><br /><span lang="">BUT THERE WOULD BE NO WEASELS!</span><br /><br /><span lang="">Even when the distant cousins rocked up (oh you know, those weirdoes who lost touch eons ago), you wouldn’t see a single weasel. Oh yes, amid the fake smiles and cries of ‘pull up a pew’, you’d spy tigers and ocelots, jaguarondis and cheetahs, clouded leopards and (oh my god) a very obese Persian.</span><br /><span lang=""></span><br /><span lang="">BUT THERE WOULD BE NO WEASELS!</span><br /><br /><span lang=""><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VEYXiCULQfw/UekhxFKmAFI/AAAAAAAABTs/1xyWoRL_pXQ/s1600/striped+weasel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="250" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VEYXiCULQfw/UekhxFKmAFI/AAAAAAAABTs/1xyWoRL_pXQ/s400/striped+weasel.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is the only weasel to sully the lands south of the Sahara. When threatened, striped weasels (<i>Poecilogale albinucha</i> ) squirt stinking anal-gland secretions for a distance of 1 metre/yard. This is one of the <i>many</i> traits they do NOT share with mongooses.</span> <br />Photo from Wikipedia.&nbsp;&nbsp; </td></tr></tbody></table><br />Nevertheless.<br />I’m willing to concede that weasels and mongooses do show <i>some</i> (superficial) likenesses. I can understand that a person who spends all their days mulling over dead bodies (and probably has seasonal affective disorder too) <i>could</i> consider these similarities noteworthy. <br />Yes - if I must - I can cope with <i>gale</i>.<br /><br />But I cannot accept <i>Helo</i>.<br />Carl Sundervall what were you thinking??<br /><br />So what does the dwarf mongooses’ scientific name actually mean?<br /><br />LITTLE WART WEASEL.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bvObBMmYiJg/Uekj74kCJOI/AAAAAAAABUA/Fq20Dc5YY0E/s1600/Black+(BM003).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="276" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-bvObBMmYiJg/Uekj74kCJOI/AAAAAAAABUA/Fq20Dc5YY0E/s400/Black+(BM003).jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Does this look like a LITTLE WART WEASEL to you? </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">(This is a rhetorical question. Any reader veering toward the affirmative is strongly advised <u>not</u> to leave a comment.)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />&nbsp;Now Carl Sundervall didn’t actually see a living, breathing (and biting) dwarf mongoose. He described the species from a cadaver sent to him by another Swede, Johan August Wahlberg. Back in the 1840s, Johan Wahlberg toured the length and breadth of South Africa <strike>shooting things</strike> collecting specimens. Dwarf mongooses were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. A vast mountain of carcasses (of mammal, bird and reptile species) were then shipped back to lucky old Stockholm. <br />So could it have been gun-happy Johan who was responsible for this dreadful naming travesty? Did he fail to treat the limp little body with sufficent reverence (and preservative)? Was the scrap of lifeless fur that Carl Sundervall lifted from the packing crate pocked with wart-like decay?<br /><br />Is there an excuse for the inexcusable?<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R6m9fXYJ-SM/Uekkco4Rh1I/AAAAAAAABUM/6V0FP8UJsDE/s1600/eagle+wahlbergs+flkr+arno+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-R6m9fXYJ-SM/Uekkco4Rh1I/AAAAAAAABUM/6V0FP8UJsDE/s400/eagle+wahlbergs+flkr+arno+meintjes.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another victim of Johan Wahlberg’s shooting spree. To add insult to (mortal) injury, this victim got landed with the perpetrator’s name: Wahlberg’s eagle (<i>Aquilla wahlbergi</i>). I guess things can always be worse. </span>Photo by Arno Meintjes.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now I realise that once a species is officially described and named, its scientific moniker cannot be changed. But surely <i>Anagalligale parvula</i> (delightful little weasel) or <i>Dulcigale parvula </i>(sweet little weasel) or even <i>Maxigale</i> <i>parvula </i>(greatest little weasel), would have been preferable.<br /><br />Maybe I can just sneak in a different name as a typo...<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KTGzfA0fA3k/UekkcqYCrKI/AAAAAAAABUI/kvZmHJDNQ7Y/s1600/a+family+moment.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="353" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KTGzfA0fA3k/UekkcqYCrKI/AAAAAAAABUI/kvZmHJDNQ7Y/s400/a+family+moment.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Dwarf mongooses (<i>Calligale parvula</i>) enjoying a family moment. Ah, beautiful little weasels...</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />&nbsp;P.S. Johan Wahlberg was ultimately killed by an elephant. Hee hee. <br /> </span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><span lang=""> </span>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-82402178517901477572013-07-15T13:50:00.001+02:002013-07-19T13:30:21.612+02:00Intruder rampant<br />Last night I was victim to a ‘<em>break&nbsp;and enter’</em>.<br />Although (to be honest) ‘<em>enter&nbsp;and break’</em> would be more apt.<br /><br />It was 2 am when I was flung from sleep by a loud, tinkling crash coming from the kitchen. A quick head count revealed that all my pets – now struggling groggily to their paws – were with me in the bedroom.<br />There was an intruder in the house.<br /><br />Snatching up my bedside torch, I and the pets (two huskies and a cat) stumbled drowsily toward the noise.<br />Now call me unwise, but it never occurred to me that the intruder might be human. From the china-shattering sound effects, I knew someone had knocked over the dishes I’d left teetering on the sink (for security purposes only, of course). This suggested an arboreal offender, and my sleep-clogged brain was shuffling inefficiently through alternatives... a bush baby, maybe? <br />Hopefully, NOT a leopard. <br /><br />I snapped on the kitchen light and all Hell broke loose.<br />Instantly a slim, cat-sized creature was hurtling around the room, bouncing off the walls, the fridge-top, the sink, the cupboard. Every gargantuan leap was accompanied by a cacophony of breakages as jars, pans, egg cartons, canisters and plates crashed to the floor (not that my kitchen is untidy, of course). My dog Magic leapt after the frightened animal, knocking over the garbage can and bounding through the broken crockery and glass. Over and above this chaos there arose a burgeoning stench: acrid, sweet and musky. <br />With everything happening so quickly, and the animal moving so fast, I couldn’t get a good look at it. My only impression was of a long, ringed tail.<br />Ahh, a genet.<br /><br />Now genets are very special animals. Of all the carnivores pussyfooting about the globe today, genets are the ones most closely resembling the ancient grand-pappy of the whole toothy mob (a little miacid who hunted 50 million years ago). In fact, the genet’s teeth and skeleton have barely changed since way back then. This isn’t to say that genets are primitive; they’re simply traditionalists who like to do things the way their mammies’ did.<br />They’re also amazingly beautiful.<br />Clothed in the softest, pale silver fur, they’re brushed with delicate streaks of inky droplets. A trim of silky black fur crests along their&nbsp;spines, and their long, long tails - the ultimate accessory - are shockingly aposematic, ringed spectacularly in white and black.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKlQWH8uKc0/UePWMVQh0-I/AAAAAAAABSw/3Hepz7qZ_Hk/s1600/genet+tsavo+east+flkr+fredric+salein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nKlQWH8uKc0/UePWMVQh0-I/AAAAAAAABSw/3Hepz7qZ_Hk/s400/genet+tsavo+east+flkr+fredric+salein.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The small spotted genet (<em>Genetta felina</em>) is one of ten species that haunt the African night. Their nearest and dearest are the civets, linsangs and mongooses (so how could they <em>not</em> be charming?).</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">P</span>hoto by Fredric Salein.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />My intruder hurtled through the kitchen doorway and circumnavigated the lounge room in seconds by ricocheting off the walls. Leaping at the French windows, it slid spread-eagled down the glass, Sylvester-like, its claws screeching all the way. Magic (who’s mania for hunting ratchets into insanity in the presence of a small carnivore) saw this as her big chance and plunged across the room. I pelted after her in a valiant attempt to avert certain carnage. But I’d underestimated the genet. Touching ground, it instantly sprang again, bouncing off the top of Wizard’s head and disappearing into the bedroom.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6KYK21i2v24/UePWKmA9jZI/AAAAAAAABSg/dtuqWq0qBro/s1600/genet+small+spot+david+bygott.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6KYK21i2v24/UePWKmA9jZI/AAAAAAAABSg/dtuqWq0qBro/s400/genet+small+spot+david+bygott.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Genets, like cats, have sharp, retractile claws that let them climb and snare small beasts efficiently. Their paws&nbsp;also have 5 toes (cats and dogs have&nbsp;4).</span> <br />Photo by David Bygot.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />By this stage the musky fetor was almost making my eyes water. You see genets are masters in the art of perfumery. As professional serial killers, they favour a solitary lifestyle and operate only under the cover of darkness. This makes conversing with lovers and rivals challenging. Yet with typical mammalian ingenuity, they’ve hit on a solution: they leave little aromatic messages that convey their identity, sexual orientation and level of libido. <br />While most carnivores make do with bog-standard anal glands - brimful with pungent bacteria - (this, by the way, includes your sweet little cat and dog), genets brandish a perineal gland too (a little slit located between&nbsp;their&nbsp;anus and&nbsp;their naughty bits). When marking is imminent, muscles pull open this innocuous looking slit to&nbsp;expose an inbuilt paintbrush of fine white hairs&nbsp;oozing a clear oily emulsion. As if this isn’t scary enough, the animal then uses&nbsp;acrobatics to apply the malodorous stuff. Backing up to an object, it flings its hind legs up over its back and teeters around on its forepaws (in a perfect handstand) to smear the goo, back and forth, as high as genetly possible. (Okay, my dwarf mongooses also indulge in handstanding, but I’m sure they’re <em>much</em> more mannerly). <br /><br />Oh, and I forgot to mention that when genets get anxious they release <em>every</em> possible excretion. <br />Urgh!<br /><br />﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aCfE5zPH9u0/UePWL3VR8WI/AAAAAAAABSs/4fjeavVY_T0/s1600/genet+small+spot+flkr+isidro+martinez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aCfE5zPH9u0/UePWL3VR8WI/AAAAAAAABSs/4fjeavVY_T0/s400/genet+small+spot+flkr+isidro+martinez.jpg" width="363" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Genets munch any small critters they can lay their paws on, from bugs to duiker lambs. They’re also partial to fruit and nectar. </span><br />Photo by Isidro Martinez.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />When I followed the procession of animals into the bedroom, I found Magic trampolining on the bed in an attempt to reach the genet, who was scrabbling up the wardrobe. Launching a flying tackle, I pinned the dog to the mattress with my body, and everything fell still. Panting quietly, we all took stock. The genet stood frozen on top of the dresser, one forepaw raised and nose uplifted like a wondrous heraldic beast (argent genet passant). <br /><br />Unfortunately, I was so busy devising an escape plan for the frightened creature, I forgot to check out its tail. Now this may seem an understandable oversight but two genet species lurk around here, and they’re not easy to tell apart. The tail of the large spotted genet (<em>Genetta tigrina</em>) sports a black tip, while the small spotted genet’s (<em>Genetta felina</em>) tail usually concludes in white (I’m sure you’ve noticed the flaw in this masterly technique). Unfortunately, the whole ‘large’ and ‘small’ business is a red herring (to confuse newbies); it refers to the spots not the beasts.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-646pCmbQXtY/UePWKY0n0wI/AAAAAAAABSY/bMzq48eg9vo/s1600/genet+large+spot+cinncinatti+zoo+flk+West+Chester+Dumonts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-646pCmbQXtY/UePWKY0n0wI/AAAAAAAABSY/bMzq48eg9vo/s400/genet+large+spot+cinncinatti+zoo+flk+West+Chester+Dumonts.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Large spotted genets (<em>Genetta tigrina</em>) are found in the moister bits of southern Africa. Their spots are rust-coloured and ringed in black rather than being charcoal (hmm, a bit subtle...).</span> <br />Photo posted on Flickr by West Chester Dumonts.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RYsgSVaF5bY/UePWK4ik97I/AAAAAAAABSk/TPxgqrJmpEs/s1600/genet+common+flkr+ricardo+sanchez.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="283" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RYsgSVaF5bY/UePWK4ik97I/AAAAAAAABSk/TPxgqrJmpEs/s400/genet+common+flkr+ricardo+sanchez.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Common or European genets (<em>Genetta genetta</em>) are the only species to venture beyond Africa (they also prowl the Middle East and southern Europe). However, it’s uncertain whether they were introduced to Europe (by the Moors to Spain) as they were routinely kept as mousers throughout the Middle Ages (before cats got popular). </span>Photo by Ricardo Sanchez.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />After careful thought, I concluded the best way to help my nameless genet was to neutralise Magic. I wasn’t worried about Wizard: he’s not much of a hunter and he was still recovering from the whole head-bouncing incident. While I dragged a whimpering Magic off to the bathroom, the genet quietly slipped back into the lounge room and escaped out the window.&nbsp; <br />Phew!<br /><br />Now I’m just left with a complete ruin of a kitchen and an overpowering stench.<br />It’s not entirely unpleasant, but... er... very animally!<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HrmZSQrPAMk/UePWM6xNx3I/AAAAAAAABS8/cSG90d5Lwdc/s1600/genets+small+spot+david+bygott.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HrmZSQrPAMk/UePWM6xNx3I/AAAAAAAABS8/cSG90d5Lwdc/s400/genets+small+spot+david+bygott.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This image is for those of us who secretly suffer tail-envy. Presumably it’s of Mum and the kids (but there seem too many). Maybe - like other solitary mammals - small spotted genets are willing to bend the rules when food is bounteous.</span> <br />Photo by David Bygott.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-31599611942450435942013-07-06T11:08:00.000+02:002013-07-10T12:42:06.922+02:00Communiqué from a hermit<span lang="" style="color: yellow; font-size: large;"><strong>I’M SORRY!</strong></span><br /><span lang=""></span><br /><span lang="">That’s an apology for my appalling lack of posts.</span><br /><span lang=""><br />Yes relatives, I <em>am</em> still alive.<br />&nbsp;</span><span lang=""><br />The problem is (okay, <em>one</em> of the problems is) I’m now living in a spot unsullied by modern communications. <br />Yet hope’s recently arrived in the form of a laptop. If I drive half a dozen kilometres, clamber to the top of a wind-whipped kopje and sit numb-bottomed and squint-eyed (playing spot the cursor), I <em>can </em>communicate with the outside world. <br />But not very much.<br />You see my funding ran out last year so I’m trying to survive on... well, nothing at all really. And petrol and internet access are costly. Nevertheless, despite these adversities, I bring you a blog post!&nbsp;</span><span lang=""><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <br />My latest domicile is tucked away beside the river in the reserve in which I <strike>potter with mongooses</strike> work. I moved in last March and have fallen in love with the place because my neighbours are all non-human.</span><br /><span lang="">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; <br />Uninhabited (theoretically) for the last seven years, the house harbours an impressive assemblage of fauna. Fortunately the hippos and hyenas - whose dawn chorus ushers in my days - tend to stay outside, but others are less reticent. Jealously I guard my dogs from the leopards who stamp their pugmarks on my driveway nightly, and struggle (vainly) to oust the bloom-devouring porcupines from the garden. Ah, bliss...<br /><br />&nbsp;</span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_VAdv3CMzx4/UdfPqyE5mRI/AAAAAAAABRM/1uGhM_imhqw/s1600/my+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_VAdv3CMzx4/UdfPqyE5mRI/AAAAAAAABRM/1uGhM_imhqw/s400/my+house.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Chez Mongoose (mainly)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang=""></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QYaK96TWhw8/UdfQDMmCxjI/AAAAAAAABRY/Hk8s4WsKSkM/s1600/my+view.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QYaK96TWhw8/UdfQDMmCxjI/AAAAAAAABRY/Hk8s4WsKSkM/s400/my+view.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The charming Oliphants River as viewed from my veranda.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang=""><br />Of course, adjusting to the idiosyncrasies of new housemates can be challenging. And some are far from pleased to see me. The incumbent geckos, for example, are the least friendly I’ve ever encountered. They lurk furtively in crevices and crannies, secretly plotting my downfall. Only if I arrive home after nightfall and unexpectedly snap on the light, do I get to see them, frozen guiltily and bristling with insurgency, up there on the walls.<br /><br />The most welcoming of my new roomies spends much of her time in the kitchen (and sadly has a figure to match). You can usually find her lounging on the bench top beneath the window. Dressed with classic elegance in umber, bistre and pearl, she emanates a proprietorial air but&nbsp;graciously lets me&nbsp;share the facilities. Admittedly she’s only six inches (15 cm) long, but for a striped skink (<em>Tachylepsis striata</em>) this is not to be sniffed at. I have presumptuously christened her Algernon. (I should point out at this stage that although my zoological expertise is profound (naturally), it does not extend to sexing small lizards (well, any lizards at all really); hence the gender-related ambiguity.)&nbsp; <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rCUMtx0rZNM/UdfQ4Laf2wI/AAAAAAAABRo/5kHxzdkscpI/s1600/Algernon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rCUMtx0rZNM/UdfQ4Laf2wI/AAAAAAAABRo/5kHxzdkscpI/s400/Algernon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Embarking on a staring contest with a striped skink (<em>Trachylepis striata</em>) is ill advised. Okay, unlike some reptiles, they do actually blink. But their lower eye lids have a transparent window so that glare never falters.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />As might be expected, there was a little friction between us at first. Algernon’s insistence on spending the night tucked up in the egg carton led to heart-stopping encounters every morning. After ten days I finally realised that – in my early morning daze - I was incapable of remembering she was there, and so I hid the eggs away in a cupboard. She ruefully shifted into the washing machine. Of course now I can’t launder my clothes before 11 am (she’s a late riser on these chilly mornings) but we all have to make compromises.<br /><br />As a striped skink (<em>Trachylepis striata</em>), Algernon is<em> meant</em> to live in trees. The soles of her feet have built-in cleats (special spiny scales) and each absurdly elongated toe sports a bark-catching keel. Unfortunately, these nifty adaptations are less well suited to kitchen fly screens. You see striped skinks are active hunters and - according to the books – they seize their insect prey after a short, fast dash. However, when Algernon is hunting flies on the window screen, her dashes - back and forth, up and down, round and round - are annoyingly protracted. With each step, her impressive grappling-iron toes snare the mesh, so she has to fling her limbs into the air like she’s practising semaphore. As inconvenient as this may be for Algernon, it’s worse for me: each unplucked toe produces a dreadful reverberating clatter that’s audible throughout the house. <br />Still a girl has to eat; I show forbearance.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFlVhDNNMlY/UdfRWKOkI9I/AAAAAAAABRw/cY-mrWndrY4/s1600/fine+figure.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZFlVhDNNMlY/UdfRWKOkI9I/AAAAAAAABRw/cY-mrWndrY4/s400/fine+figure.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Algernon showing off her fine toes and svelte figure.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Our relationship has grown considerably more cordial since Algernon discovered the delights of mealworms. Each day she greets me upon my return from the field, skittering across the counter top to stand gazing up at me in the hopes of cadging any leftover worms. (Yes, that soft susurrus <em>was</em> a gasp of outrage by my mongooses.) After hours basking on the window sill, Algernon moves quicker than the eye can see. I find this unexpectedly disturbing. I mean we’re all used to small critters flitting out of sight in the blink of an eye, but when one flits AT you, it’s a different story entirely. One moment she’s sitting peaceably on the counter top and the next she’s crouched on my wrist, glaring at me fiercely for failing to unhand the mealworm. As far as I’m concerned, teleporting lizards should stay firmly in the realm of science fiction.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qk3xYvl-g2Y/UdfRqXiCxAI/AAAAAAAABR4/AQlsPAK8xUE/s1600/Wheres+the+worms.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qk3xYvl-g2Y/UdfRqXiCxAI/AAAAAAAABR4/AQlsPAK8xUE/s400/Wheres+the+worms.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was wondering whether to teach Algernon tricks (is this demeaning?). But what’s the point of a lizard that jumps through a hoop if you can’t see it do it??</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now the advantage of living on the window sill (apart from the whole fly-catching business) is that Algernon can zip back and forth through the gap in the screen whenever danger threatens. The down side - at least from my perspective - is that those with an appetite for striped skinks sometimes pursue her right into the house. So far I’ve discovered a brown-headed kingfisher lurking behind the stove and a little sparrow hawk circling the light fitting in my bedroom. Considering that the hole in the screen is only the size of my fist (or, more accurately, the fist of a bygone burglar), this is impressive.<br />&nbsp; </span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V36_0guwCPw/UdfSCJR1a_I/AAAAAAAABSA/bPxN9BpvnMs/s1600/striped+skink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V36_0guwCPw/UdfSCJR1a_I/AAAAAAAABSA/bPxN9BpvnMs/s400/striped+skink.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Striped skinks are modern, up-to-date lizards who have no time for all that primitive egg-laying stuff. Mums heroically bear a litter of 3 to 9 mini-skinks each summer (something to look forward to...&nbsp; hmm).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang=""></span><br /><span lang="">Now if you’re reading this post, it means: </span><br /><span lang="">(a) I still have at least one gallant and faithful reader (I'll add you to my Xmas card list); </span><br /><span lang="">(b) I <em>can</em> upload posts despite my wonky internet connection. </span><br /><span lang="">Taken together, these suggest that I have no excuse for not resuming blogging.&nbsp; <br />Of course, I do have&nbsp;a wide selection of half-written posts on my computer... <br />Hmm, all I need now is to overcome my self-loathing....&nbsp; <br />Please stay tuned!</span><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-35356312316505904552013-01-12T15:22:00.001+02:002013-01-12T15:22:23.661+02:00Scarred for life (or what's left of it)‘Well, it’s going to leave a scar’, the doctor said as we stared at the gaping wound on my lower leg.<br />He wanted to stitch it. <br />I was trying to avoid having needles poked through my flesh.<br />‘I can cope with that’, I said calmly (secretly thinking: Ah ha. Now I can <em>impress</em> people who ask about my scars).<br /><br />But that was five years ago and NO ONE HAS EVER ASKED.<br /><br />Now this sad state of affairs is a product of my age.<br />Have you noticed that when you’re young, people are forever asking you how you acquired this blemish or that. And as a callow youth, all you can do is confess, ‘Okay, I’m a complete klutz’. Yes, I <em>did</em> mishandle a breadknife; yes, I <em>did</em> trip on the stairs. <br />But as you edge into middle-age, scars shift allegiance, traitorously teaming up with wrinkles, saggy skin and liver spots to become harbingers of age. And, goodness me, no one wants to mention <em>them</em>! <br /><br />Of course, the phenomenon isn’t limited to bodily blemishes and I’m the first to rejoice in this unexpected benefit of aging. No longer must I endure prolonged and incredulous discussions about why I don’t want children (<em>Oh God, she’s one of those unfortunate women who can’t have kids..</em>.) or hours of nonsensical harassment over imbibing distasteful beverages (<em>don’t say anything; she’s obviously on the wagon.</em>..). <br />But I’m digressing shamelessly here (probably senility).<br />Since no one has ever enquired about the impressive scar on my right calf, I’m going to tell you about it here. And it serves you right for being so polite! <br /><br />It was a dark and stormy night... <br />Well it was dark at least. Oh, and it was hot (I was wearing shorts). <br />Suddenly my dogs shot out the backdoor, barking wildly. Something stirred in the bushes beyond the garden and Magic (my husky cross) clambered straight up and over my dog-proof fence. <br />Aha, I thought, this&nbsp;isn’t one of our normal passersby.<br />You see, like all well-brought-up carnivores, my dogs detest other meat-eating beasts. When a porcupine, hippo or waterbuck tippy-toes past the garden they respond with a bark or two, but only a carnivorous creature can arouse them to such athleticism.<br /><br />Envisaging the potential annihilation of some innocent little furbearer, I girded my loins for a rescue mission (scuffed my feet into thongs/flipflops and grabbed up my semi-flat torch/flashlight).<br />As I hurried through the thigh-high forbes below the garden, I could see Magic circling a large tree stump, barking frantically. Oh dear, some inoffensive critter must be hiding among the broken roots. A fur-fluffed genet maybe? Or a striped polecat, big-eyed and cowering? Shining my wavering torch beam carefully on the stump, I hastened toward Magic. <br />Then <span style="font-size: large;">CRUNCH!</span><br />Something had sunk its teeth into my lower leg. <br />And let me tell you, this was no little mustelid.<br />With my mind still fixed on nocturnal mammals, I bewilderedly ran through the possibilities. A civet? A honey badger? <br />But even the most vicious honey badger couldn’t feel like this! Warm wetness was flowing down my leg and pooling stickily in my sandal. As I lowered the torch beam toward my leg, my mysterious attacker gave a head-shake, thrashing the vegetation wildly and almost flinging me off my feet. Then it let go. And I finally managed to get the light focused at my feet.<br />Oh God!<br />Right before me was the wide, tooth-filled gape of a crocodile. <br /><br />﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O96HxsA4xC0/UPFIwJNBoRI/AAAAAAAABNs/Y67Zi__4XMc/s1600/kruger+croc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-O96HxsA4xC0/UPFIwJNBoRI/AAAAAAAABNs/Y67Zi__4XMc/s400/kruger+croc.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What you don’t want to see two inches in front of you.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿<br />Now this was a shock. This is NOT what you expect to find at the bottom of your garden! Well sure, I live beside the Oliphants River, but the water’s edge is at least 250m/yards from my house.<br />The reptile, poised threateningly in a patch of flattened vegetation, was relatively small (for a crocodile) being about the same size as me (1.7 m / 5’6” long). And it was fixing&nbsp;me with&nbsp;a piercing death stare. Without thinking, I immediately stepped backward and the creature lunged toward me, it's mouth still agape. However, this time it kept its teeth to itself and I was able to slowly back away. As I hobbled squelchily back to the house, I found I was shaking head to foot.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qIMf2wi2-EM/UPFKFVVW3lI/AAAAAAAABOE/Y9GkSYMXEBM/s1600/croc+jaw+Silvain+de+Munck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="267" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-qIMf2wi2-EM/UPFKFVVW3lI/AAAAAAAABOE/Y9GkSYMXEBM/s400/croc+jaw+Silvain+de+Munck.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Fortunately the teeth of the Nile crocodile (<em>Crocodylus nilotus</em>) are designed to grab and hold, rather than slice and dice. On the downside, crocodiles have the most powerful bite known for any living creature. </span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Silvain de Munck.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Now I don’t blame the crocodile for this assault. Clearly I’d blundered straight into it, and who doesn’t bite when stepped upon? I’m just profoundly grateful that it let go! A few years ago I read an article in the local paper about a crocodile that got into a swimming pool at a local game lodge. It grabbed a child (by a limb) and hung on. The girl’s grandfather managed to keep her above water, but it was half an hour before he could persuade the beast to open its maw. Unfortunately, the crocodile had to be put down afterwards because Granddad had had to gouge its eyes right out of their sockets before the crocodile would let go. <br /><br />Now if you’ve ever lain awake at night worrying about how hard a crocodile can bite (and who hasn’t), a recent <a href="http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0031781">study</a> by Gregory Erickson and his colleges in Florida will put your mind at rest. These intrepid researchers persuaded 83 crocodilians to sink their fangs into a waterproof, leather-encased bathroom scale (ain’t science grand). They measured the bite force of all 23 living species, from diminutive little fish-eaters to bloody great wildebeest-snatchers. And what they found was unexpected.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ECjM0Rb0N0/UPFKrXrxWbI/AAAAAAAABOM/BsnrbJLjCtg/s1600/indian+gharial+josh+more+flkr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="246" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ECjM0Rb0N0/UPFKrXrxWbI/AAAAAAAABOM/BsnrbJLjCtg/s400/indian+gharial+josh+more+flkr.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: small;">The toothy schnoz of the Indian gharial (<em>Gavialis gangeticus</em>) is a perfect fish-processing tool.</span> </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n65v5YIcC0E/UPFJkn8CsnI/AAAAAAAABN8/6rjzTAu1OrU/s1600/chinese+alligator+flkr+Roger+Smith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="72" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n65v5YIcC0E/UPFJkn8CsnI/AAAAAAAABN8/6rjzTAu1OrU/s200/chinese+alligator+flkr+Roger+Smith.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 127px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 2654px; visibility: hidden;" width="96" /></a>Photo by Josh More.</div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n65v5YIcC0E/UPFJkn8CsnI/AAAAAAAABN8/6rjzTAu1OrU/s1600/chinese+alligator+flkr+Roger+Smith.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-n65v5YIcC0E/UPFJkn8CsnI/AAAAAAAABN8/6rjzTAu1OrU/s400/chinese+alligator+flkr+Roger+Smith.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Chinese alligator’s (<em>Alligator sinensis</em>) Walt-Disneyesque snub nose is custom-made for crushing mollusc shells</span>. <br />Photo by Roger Smith.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">It didn’t matter what a crocodile ate, or how its snout or teeth were shaped, the force of its bite was the same. What was important was the size of the beast; the bigger the croc (regardless of its species) the worse the chomp (note to self: don’t step on a <em>large</em> crocodile). The most powerful bite the researchers measured was inflicted by a&nbsp;whopping (5.3 m/17 ft long) saltwater crocodile whose teeth crunched down with a force of 3,700 pounds per sq inch (psi) or 16,400 newtons. Compare this to a human’s best bite (150-200 psi or 4,450 newtons) or that of a lion or spotted hyena (1,000 psi or 4,450 newtons) and you can see why crocodiles really are best avoided. </div><br />Using the measurements from this study, and scaling down to a 1.7 m crocodile, I figure that my scar was produced by teeth pressing into my flesh at a&nbsp;force of about 335 psi (or 1,500 newtons). This isn’t too bad really (it’s certainly better than a lion). I guess you can stop feeling sympathetic (you were feeling sympathy, weren’t you?).<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zbTNQc6BEfg/UPFJa91w7qI/AAAAAAAABN0/q7e8For_2co/s1600/croc+eye+Silvain+de+Munck+flkr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zbTNQc6BEfg/UPFJa91w7qI/AAAAAAAABN0/q7e8For_2co/s400/croc+eye+Silvain+de+Munck+flkr.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The little raised black spots on the scales of crocodilians are touch-receptors, ten-times more sensitive than our finger tips. You can read about them&nbsp;</span><a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/notrocketscience/2012/11/08/crocodile-faces-are-more-sensitive-than-human-fingertips/"><span style="font-size: small;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: small;">. Nile crocodiles, such as this one, have them sprinkled all over, but in alligators they’re restricted to the snout.</span> Photo by Silvain de Munck.</td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>﻿﻿Now you may be wondering what‘s brought on my current bout of crocobilia. Well I’m currently staying&nbsp;(temporarily I’m afraid) in a beautiful lodge perched on an outcrop above the river. And it has a swimming pool (oh, the luxury). Unfortunately my dogs - who presumably read the local rag - believe the pool is crocodile-infested and won’t set paw anywhere near it. Whenever I take a dip they look at me with tragic reproof, utterly convinced that this folly will cost me my life. And Magic’s paranoia doesn’t stop there; she’s sure we’re facing an invasion. With great heroism, she sits guard, day and night, on the verandah overlooking the pool and barks ferociously each time the floating bottle of pool chemicals drifts in the direction of the house. Sigh. <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6H7Z1iTVIf0/UPFKrRFL7UI/AAAAAAAABOQ/pxObx7nOgPE/s1600/magic+%2526+pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6H7Z1iTVIf0/UPFKrRFL7UI/AAAAAAAABOQ/pxObx7nOgPE/s400/magic+%2526+pool.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Magic on sentry duty.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ </div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-3819017414942959392012-12-25T15:07:00.001+02:002013-11-02T10:57:15.154+02:00A festivity of pupsOne.... two, three.... <br />Crouched in the dappled shade of a marula tree, I was counting pups. <br />Not pups of the canine persuasion; mongoose pups. <br />Now this was no easy feat because they were passing me at speed, curled into walnut-sized balls within the mouths of their caregivers. <br /><br />Four... five...<br />Number five was having a rough ride, dragged along enthusiastically by nine-month-old Echo. Despite pointing his nose skyward and waddling on tiptoes, he simply wasn’t tall enough to lift his cargo clear of snags.<br />Six...<br />Oh, wait a minute, there’s one being carried back again... <br />Back to five...<br /><br />Koppiekats group was shifting its week-old pups to a new termite mound and it was my&nbsp;one chance to figure out how many there were.<br />Frenzied excitement gripped the group as mongooses dashed back and forth; some carrying pups, some not. Calling anxiously to one another, and with agitation-fluffed fur, some individuals raced ahead to check the safety of the new mound while others ran helter-skelter back to huddle the last nest-bound pups. Meanwhile the pup-carriers hurried on past, self-importantly announcing their passage with uninterrupted, high-pitched peeps (‘clear the way, pup coming through’). And the little ones - although tiny, black-fuzzed and blind - gave ear-piercing squawks whenever they were unceremoniously dumped beneath tussock or log.<br /><br />Six... seven... <br />Eight!<br /><br />No wonder the group was so excited.<br />Four is the normal size of a dwarf mongoose litter.<br />So how did Koppiekats end up with eight?<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-reXUpQE2EyI/UNmPHhpOYdI/AAAAAAAABK0/IYBWqp6czSQ/s1600/4+wks+old.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-reXUpQE2EyI/UNmPHhpOYdI/AAAAAAAABK0/IYBWqp6czSQ/s400/4+wks+old.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Koppiekats’ most recent progeny, venturing out at four weeks old. Pups stay snugged away inside a termite mound for their first three weeks of life, coddled and guarded by babysitters. With so many little ones, Koppiekats felt the responsibility keenly, usually leaving behind two or three minders.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />As you probably know, dwarf mongooses - like their celebrated cousins the meerkats – are the living embodiment of the Musketeers’ motto. Dedicated to the ‘all-for-one and one-for-all’ maxim, group members team up to harry snakes, evict trespassers and warn one another of incoming raptors. With heroic selflessness, they forfeit their own romantic aspirations to devotedly care for the offspring of their group’s sovereigns. It’s all heart-warmingly altruistic.<br />In theory.<br />In reality, the Queen’s ladies-in-waiting are not quite so chaste. These heirs apparent (sisters and grown daughters of the Queen) are not above indulging in a little hanky-panky. And when the inevitable happens, they try to hush it up by smuggling the consequences into the royal nursery. <br /><br />To help perpetuate the hoax, they&nbsp;give birth on the same day as the monarch. I don’t know how they manage this because the courtiers normally mate a day or two after the Queen. But when royalty decrees, loyal subjects follow, ready or not. It looks as if the illegitimate pups are simply borne a little premature (they’re smaller and have shorter fur). Even courtiers who are only ‘a bit pregnant’ honour the auspicious day, aborting their litters and discreetly nibbling up the tiny pink foetuses.<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wr3mIWQGqNw/UNmSOzmkOSI/AAAAAAAABLI/O8reUsV2YN0/s1600/cricket+preg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wr3mIWQGqNw/UNmSOzmkOSI/AAAAAAAABLI/O8reUsV2YN0/s400/cricket+preg.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">When spring is in the air, the ladies of the court don’t seem to be able to say ‘No’, and the sovereign is rarely alone when she delivers the first litter of the summer. This is Cricket, an errant Princess in Bugbears, awaiting the big day.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />So what’s the fate of these illegitimate ankle-biters? <br />Well that’s in the paws of the Queen.<br />Normally they’re doomed.<br />Her&nbsp;Majesty swiftly transforms them into a restorative post-partum snack and the bereaved mums then act as wet-nurses for the rightful heirs. Fortunately (from my perspective) dwarf mongooses don’t believe in airing their dirty laundry in public so all I see of the nefarious deed is a bulging tummy and blood-smeared chin. Not so <em>meerkats</em>, who enact a horrifying spectacle in which the whole group tussles over the gory remains.<br /><br />However, occasionally, if food is plentiful, the Queen grants a stay of execution. A genetic study of Serengeti’s dwarf mongooses found that 18% of pups reared by the group are the progeny of lesser females. Although the rulers of my other study groups were merciless this year, Pleiades, the sovereign of Koppiekats, opted for clemency. So some of the pups that just passed me are actually Pleiades’ nieces, nephews or grandkids. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fcEn1XjoOng/UNmSqMSeW0I/AAAAAAAABLQ/0RB6d7RuRNI/s1600/mixed+litter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="296" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fcEn1XjoOng/UNmSqMSeW0I/AAAAAAAABLQ/0RB6d7RuRNI/s400/mixed+litter.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The brood at six weeks. Notice the size difference between the legitimate pups (on the left) and the little interloper on the right. Yes, there is a question mark over his head: I don’t know who his mum is (because three courtiers - Spark, Helium and Mercury – were in the family way).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />But even if they escape the death sentence at birth, illegitimate pups aren’t out of the woods. They face a second test. And it is this that has made me apprehensive every time I've visited Koppiekats. <br /><br />You see at one month old, mongoose pups begin tagging along on the group’s daily foraging jaunts. Chivvied, cajoled and carried, the little ones are tended constantly. Carefully lodged under a log or boulder, the pups are then presented with half-chewed creepy-crawlies by doting group members.<br />But when the pups hit five weeks old, this mollycoddling stops. Although everyone still feeds them (and will do so for another five weeks), the youngsters are expected to look out for themselves. If the group runs, so must they. It doesn’t matter how far, or how fast; they must keep up. So if any pup is below par (debilitated from want of food, illness or underdevelopment), they’re simply left behind. <br /><br />Although I loathe this phase of mongoose-rearing, it serves the mongooses well, ensuring that they channel their efforts only into the healthiest pups. <br />And I’m very relieved to report that all but one of the little Koppiekats pups managed to pass this trial. Aided and abetted by a timely glut of beetle lava, seven of the roly-poly little creatures live to tell the tale. In fact they’re doing so well, they spend most of their time playing rather than trying to cadge food from their betters.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DobKRCx_DZE/UNmj6_iYQxI/AAAAAAAABNI/RBetmtMf8t8/s1600/koppies+snail+shell(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-DobKRCx_DZE/UNmj6_iYQxI/AAAAAAAABNI/RBetmtMf8t8/s400/koppies+snail+shell(1).JPG" width="255" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shell games.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O0xgOTFYyo/UNmTUVnvWRI/AAAAAAAABLg/fpaDtawpkGo/s1600/leaf+play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="281" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2O0xgOTFYyo/UNmTUVnvWRI/AAAAAAAABLg/fpaDtawpkGo/s400/leaf+play.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Leaf games.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UP81QFyEGs4/UNmTqQ2FfwI/AAAAAAAABLo/dkjk6tMCDq8/s1600/ear+chew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="326" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UP81QFyEGs4/UNmTqQ2FfwI/AAAAAAAABLo/dkjk6tMCDq8/s400/ear+chew.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bite-brother games.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DReESPpFUU/UNmUK9CdrdI/AAAAAAAABLw/pK3TjyWobdM/s1600/play.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="295" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5DReESPpFUU/UNmUK9CdrdI/AAAAAAAABLw/pK3TjyWobdM/s400/play.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">If you were wondering, no-one left these pups out in the rain. The rusty patches on their fur are from daubs of ‘Camomile’ blonde hair dye (so I can tell who’s who).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bZr--Ypfc6s/UNmUjotaEXI/AAAAAAAABL4/4TiK7oGKiBM/s1600/snoozing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bZr--Ypfc6s/UNmUjotaEXI/AAAAAAAABL4/4TiK7oGKiBM/s400/snoozing.jpg" width="351" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Born on 31 Oct, the Koppiekat pups remain unnamed. I’m trying to come up with Halloween-appropriate monikers, but they also need to be associated with minerals (as in Twenty Questions). Darkness, maybe? Sulphur? Or Silver (for the bullets needed to pot vampires)? Any suggestions gratefully received!</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="border: currentColor;">I almost forgot. </div><div style="border: currentColor; text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: lime; font-family: &quot;Trebuchet MS&quot;, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong>HAPPY CHRISTMAS!!</strong></span></span></div><br /><br /><div style="border: currentColor; text-align: center;"><br /></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-31046629471381365942012-12-09T15:48:00.000+02:002012-12-09T15:48:22.394+02:00Fraternizing with the locals<br /><span style="font-size: large;">WHOOOOP... WHOOOOOP... WHOOOOP... </span><br /><br />The deep, resonant calls - each ascending smoothly in pitch - were spine-tinglingly loud.<br />I dashed outside into the cool, river-scented darkness. The night reverberated with the machinery-clatter of toads, cicadas and crickets, yet the eerie, other-worldly whoops were loud enough to thrum within my chest.<br /><br />Somewhere, down below me in the riverbed, a spotted hyena was calling to his/her clan.<br /><br />Now even if you’ve never been to Africa (and if you’re into wildlife, WHY NOT?); even if you’ve never seen a hyena in the fur, you’ll recognise these calls. Beyond any other sight or sound, the hyena’s whoops epitomize the African night (and feature in virtually every&nbsp;wildlife documentary ever made on this continent). <br />And of all the wild places in the world, Africa - at night - is probably the scariest. It's also our&nbsp;ancestral home. For millions of years our forebears stared out into the dark, shivering at the sound of the hyena’s call. It’s no surprise then, that the eerie whoops stir a deep, atavistic trepidation. Grinning insanely into the dark, I stood revelling in the&nbsp;trills of fear that fluttered up and down my spine.<br /><br />[You can listen to a spotted hyena whooping <a href="http://www.predatorconservation.com/spotted%20hyena.htm">here</a> (button no 2)]. <br /><br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-il72RUfRzt8/UMNHBetA8wI/AAAAAAAABKI/JYTZuhhODr0/s1600/hyaena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" nea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-il72RUfRzt8/UMNHBetA8wI/AAAAAAAABKI/JYTZuhhODr0/s400/hyaena.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hyena-kind evolved from mongooses and civets about 10 million years ago. The spotted hyena (<em>Crocuta crocuta</em>) has haunted the African savanna for as long as humankind's existed. It can also digest teeth (I just thought you’d like to know that).</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />Now I don’t want you to start thinking that hyenas whoop&nbsp;simply for our titillation. This long-distance call (audible up to 5 km/3 miles) is the SMS of the hyena-world. Roaming&nbsp;clan-members use it to keep in touch and&nbsp;call&nbsp;for assistance when uninvited visitors rock up for dinner. <br /><br />Whoop-studying <a href="http://www.researchgate.net/publication/223723093_Loud_calling_in_a_female-dominated_mammalian_society_II._Behavioural_contexts_and_functions_of_whooping_of_spotted_hyaenas_Crocuta_crocuta">researchers</a>&nbsp;- plotting the calls of different hyenas on spectrograms - found that each hyena has its own distinctive whoop; something I guess the hyenas already knew.<br />Although an individual’s voice gets deeper as it ages, the unique pattern of its whoops&nbsp;remain consistent year after year; so&nbsp;hyenas can&nbsp;recognise one another from whoop alone. <br /><br />When <a href="http://www.researchgate.net/publication/222923855_Vocal_recognition_in_the_spotted_hyaena_and_its_possible_implications_regarding_the_evolution_of_intelligence/file/9fcfd502a8cfae6f66.pdf">researchers</a> played&nbsp;back recordings of&nbsp;cubs (who start whooping at 3-4 weeks), the whooper’s mum (but not other mothers) rushed to the speaker (oh, that is unless&nbsp;Mum was dining, in which case she just glowered in the right direction – hey, you gotta get your priorities right). Close family members also responded, and&nbsp;the amount of time they spent eyeing the speaker was directly proportional to how closely related they were to the little whooper. In fact, hyenas seem to use&nbsp;whoops&nbsp;to flaunt their identity&nbsp;during&nbsp;brawls&nbsp;(and <em>no one</em> scraps&nbsp;as&nbsp;well as spotted hyenas).<br /><br />Now I have to admit I wasn’t thinking about any of this as I stood&nbsp;at the bottom of my garden the other night. I was peering into the darkness, straining to pinpoint the exact location of the caller.<br />Umm, exactly <em>which </em>side of the river was the creature&nbsp;prowling? <br />Then my heart-stopped.<br />Directly behind me (and I’m talking one or two metres/yards) an answering call rose up. Fear clutched my chest as the eerie, resonant wail swelled upwards. But after a few moments I realised that the call was not a hyena’s. Although almost as loud, and with the same deep, tonal qualities, it continued to rise, and then&nbsp;undulate, in pitch. It was probably the most desolate sound I’ve ever heard. Still barely able to breathe, I crept toward the uncanny, penetrating wail.<br />What could make such a call?<br />And there it was; lying on my door mat.<br />My husky, Wizard.<br /><br />﻿ <br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xpBG3vl9mOM/UMNHuSI2GzI/AAAAAAAABKU/B0j0o6D-YBw/s1600/exasperated+hyena.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" nea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xpBG3vl9mOM/UMNHuSI2GzI/AAAAAAAABKU/B0j0o6D-YBw/s400/exasperated+hyena.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘You won’t believe the <em>riffraff</em> you&nbsp;meet around here these days’.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <br />Now in truth, I couldn’t have been more shocked if I’d stumbled upon the cat reciting Shakespeare. This was like no dog’s howl <em>I’d</em> ever heard. It was a blood-curdling keening, evocative of wildness, primal instinct and vast empty lands. It was NOT&nbsp;something that should be emanating from a household pet!&nbsp;In the seven years that&nbsp;Wizard has&nbsp;companionably shared the humdrum domesticity of my&nbsp;life, I’ve <em>never</em> heard him utter such a sound.<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPeSSZzYpwM/UMNIKU4aATI/AAAAAAAABKc/j1xZXlaBdJc/s1600/wizard+&amp;+silver.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" nea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jPeSSZzYpwM/UMNIKU4aATI/AAAAAAAABKc/j1xZXlaBdJc/s400/wizard+&amp;+silver.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Wizard, pining for the tundra?</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br />I guess&nbsp;the whole incident&nbsp;made me realise that, just as our own hearts and minds were honed&nbsp;by millions of years on the African savanna, so too our domestic animals carry&nbsp;within them the legacy of their ancestors’ lives. It’s so easy to overlook our pets, to somehow believe they’re creations of our own (like TV or motor cars or computers). But our companion animals are profoundly wild beings, gifted to us with just the flimsiest wrappings of domesticity.<br />And what an utterly amazing privilege it is to share so intimately in the life of a wholly different species. <br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-70124989816164273842012-09-23T15:10:00.001+02:002012-09-23T15:10:17.090+02:00Male nannies get the girlsOne of the advantages of living above the river is the endless aeronautics display.<br /><br />Step outside my door and you're treated to fork-tailed drongos fluttering and plunging, little bee-eaters, adorned in cinnamon and gold, effortlessly looping the looping and, way up above, tiny swifts&nbsp;floating like calligraphy bewitched from the page.<br /><br />But among these master aviators, there’s one creature that surpasses them all.<br /><br />Dressed like an accountant and encumbered by a massive ice-pick bill, it seems an unlikely candidate for aerial supremacy, but the pied kingfisher is utterly mesmerising.<br /><br />Zooming along just inches above the water, it suddenly rockets upward 10m (33ft) into the air, and there it stalls. Completely. With its torso held almost vertically and its huge black bill pointing straight down, it hovers motionless; not just for a few moments, but on and on and on.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SweOe3FljBY/UFXWQkCNw7I/AAAAAAAABIo/X2WqO_GHIrE/s1600/pied+kingf+flk+Tarique+Sani.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="305" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SweOe3FljBY/UFXWQkCNw7I/AAAAAAAABIo/X2WqO_GHIrE/s400/pied+kingf+flk+Tarique+Sani.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pied kingfishers (<em>Ceryle rudis</em>) are the second largest of South Africa’s ten kingfisher species. This one’s double necklace of black reveals that it’s male; females are more demur, sporting only a single band. </span>Photo posted on Flickr by Tarique Sani.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />It’s at this point that I start feeling anxious. I know I should be excited at the prospect of the hunt, and I’ve seen other people clutch one another eagerly and cry, “Oh look, it’s about to dive!” <br />But as the bird just hangs there, flouting gravity, I find myself glancing at the pool below and wondering how <em>anything</em> can plunge at breakneck speed into one foot of water without suffering... er, neck-breaking consequences. As the bird continues to hover (for the next 5 to 10 seconds), pictures drift into my mind: murky underwater images of kingfishers stuck bill-first in the muddy pond floor.<br /><br />Of course this never happens. Down the bird plummets, plunging below the surface and immediately surging back up - almost at the same speed (how does it do this?) - amid a glittering cowl of water droplets. <br /><br />﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HTPDlqfchU4/UFXY5RZLtZI/AAAAAAAABJA/mK_dK69fLdE/s1600/pied+kingf+flk+A+&amp;+L+Meinjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HTPDlqfchU4/UFXY5RZLtZI/AAAAAAAABJA/mK_dK69fLdE/s400/pied+kingf+flk+A+&amp;+L+Meinjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Pied kingfishers&nbsp;plunge-dive in waters throughout Africa,&nbsp;India, Myanmar and southern China. While African birds dine exclusively on fish, those living in Asia are less fussy,&nbsp;enjoying side dishes of aquatic insects and crabs.</span> <br />Photo by Arno Meintjes.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <br />But if the way pied kingfishers acquire lunch is bizarre, it’s nothing to the way they produce more little kingfishers.<br /><br />Defying all kingfisherly conventions, this bird <strike>thumbs its nose</strike> wings its beak at the concept of territoriality. <br />And nuclear families? Well, who needs ‘em? <br /><br />You see unlike&nbsp;other kingfishers,&nbsp;pieds gather together in busy breeding colonies. Using nothing but beak and claw,&nbsp;they gouge out 2 m (6.6 ft) long nesting tunnels in a communal bank, sometimes crowding their homes to within&nbsp;0.5 m (1.6 ft) of one another. <br />And as if this isn’t social enough,&nbsp;loving couples also share their underground hideaways with up to six male nannies! <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_5B95W0ewis/UFXfIPf0ljI/AAAAAAAABJY/pSu41eKcurw/s1600/pied+king+at+nest+flk+skuarua.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_5B95W0ewis/UFXfIPf0ljI/AAAAAAAABJY/pSu41eKcurw/s400/pied+king+at+nest+flk+skuarua.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Born to burrow. The pied kingfisher's second and third toes&nbsp;are partly fused together; this&nbsp;is thought to&nbsp;help them shovel dirt.</span> <br />Photo posted on Flickr by skuarua.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />So how does all this come about?<br />Well, young pied kingfishers leave the family home normally at about four months of age, but if the guys don’t find themselves a girl (and 95% bomb out), they move back home with Mum and Dad. Now this isn’t as bad as it sounds because they do help out about the house. In fact, they put as much effort into their chores (guarding the chicks from marauding mongooses, monitors and rivals, and ferrying fish to them) as do Mum and Dad. Of course this is&nbsp;sensible (and so isn't the kind of behaviour you expect from young males): if you can’t have kids of your own, at least you can give your genes a push-start by helping your little brothers and sisters.<br /><br />However, in some pied kingfisher colonies, pairs also take on <em>unrelated </em>childcare workers.<br /><br />But why do these males <em>want</em> to hand over good fish to strangers? <br />And if there’s free help available, why don’t <em>all</em> colonies take advantage of it?<br />To get to the bottom of this fishy behaviour (sorry), Uli Reyer undertook a <a href="http://www.uli-reyer.ch/index_htm_files/Reyer(1990a)-new.pdf">long-term study</a> in Kenya, comparing kingfishers that lived on the windy shores of Lake Victoria (where non-related home-help is all the go) with those dwelling at flamingo-rimmed Lake Naivasha (where it’s unheard of).<br /><br />He found that if you’re a pied kingfisher, Lake Naivasha is <em>the</em> place to be. Here the birds live a cushy life, feasting on plump native cichlids. Even without any help, pairs are able to successfully rear four healthy chicks. <br />But things are very different at Lake Victoria. The kingfishers here&nbsp;dine on slim, deep-water sardines which only come up to the surface at dawn and dusk. The birds must fly long distances over open water to reach their feeding <strike>ground</strike> water and the wind-whipped ripples reduce visibility. Only 24% of the birds’ dives snare a fish (compared with 79% at Naivasha), and pairs working alone can raise only 1.9 chicks. Half their hatchlings simply starve to death. So Lake Victoria kingfishers needed all the help they can get. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qpKzaleeDIk/UFXXocCHiyI/AAAAAAAABI4/q17KcSHlJsM/s1600/pied+kingf+family+flk+lip+kee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qpKzaleeDIk/UFXXocCHiyI/AAAAAAAABI4/q17KcSHlJsM/s400/pied+kingf+family+flk+lip+kee.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A juvenile pied kingfisher (and groups normally rear four) gulps down 35 g (1.2 oz) of fish daily and is fed for at least six weeks. But the fish the kingfishers catch&nbsp;average only 1-2 g (0.04-0.07 oz). Even without a calculator, that’s an awful lot of work!</span><br />Photo posted on Flickr by Lip Kee.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Just to make certain that it was the need to put food on the table that led to the recruitment of helpers, the researchers sneakily increased the workload of Lake Navaisha pairs by doubling their clutch&nbsp;to 8 to 10 chicks. Sure enough, these beleaguered parents happily accepted non-related nannies into their homes, even though&nbsp;this was<em> not</em> the done thing in their neighbourhood. In contrast, when families at Lake Victoria were reduced to just one&nbsp;or two chicks, the unburdened parents steadfastly rejected the approaches of potential helpers.<br /><br />But all this doesn’t explain why unrelated males <em>want</em> to help.<br />If they don’t have younger siblings to care for, why don’t they just loaf about, marshalling their resources so they’re super sleek and sexy for the next breeding season?<br /><br />Well Reyer&nbsp;discovered that 91% of these unrelated, live-in childcare workers landed themselves a girl the following year (compared with only 60% of the stay-at-home sons and 33% of the loafers).<br />What was their secret?<br />Well, almost half of these successful Lotharios teamed up with the female they’d helped the previous year!<br />You see fathering baby kingfishers really takes it out of you, and only about half of dads survive to breed the following year. And when hubby passes on, who’s right there, offering a consoling fish to the grieving widow? The live-in help, of course.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ExAwonEmGc/UFXciM8_MeI/AAAAAAAABJQ/Sqoo0Yoew40/s1600/pied+kingf+flk+Andy+Li.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1ExAwonEmGc/UFXciM8_MeI/AAAAAAAABJQ/Sqoo0Yoew40/s400/pied+kingf+flk+Andy+Li.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Unlike sons stuck at home (whose testes don’t even bother to produce sperm), unrelated helpers are all primed up for sex. This explains&nbsp;why Dad&nbsp;only accepts them into his family <em>after</em> his chicks hatch out and there's no chance of a bit of&nbsp;hanky-panky with Mum.</span><br />Photo by Andy Li.&nbsp;</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />In fact, it looks as if the pied kingfishers’ unique nesting colonies actually serve as old time hiring fairs. Here, amid all the hustle and bustle, youths seeking childcare work can check out prospective families and advertise their availability (by presenting Dad with a gift of fish), and overworked parents can pick and choose whom they’d like to have help with the kids.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--7oWL7PEJUY/UFXaesHBSPI/AAAAAAAABJI/o7l-dBfLNKo/s1600/pied+kingf+flk+martin+heigan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="260" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--7oWL7PEJUY/UFXaesHBSPI/AAAAAAAABJI/o7l-dBfLNKo/s400/pied+kingf+flk+martin+heigan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Looking smug? Traditionally kingfishers are associated with good luck.</span>&nbsp;Photo by Martin Heigan.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-40893970194237719442012-09-10T23:15:00.001+02:002012-09-11T15:56:54.689+02:00Flipping uncertaintiesYesterday was International Rock Flipping Day.<br /><br />No, it wasn’t a day of wild celebration for stone-skimming enthusiasts, nor a day of reckoning for designers of rockeries.<br /><br />On this auspicious day stout-hearted folk from around the globe head out into the wilds to turn over boulders and see what weird and wonderful critters are loitering underneath.<br /><br />Now each time the event rolls around I’m faced with a quandary. I like the <em>idea </em>of all this collective rock-flipping but quail at the prospect of actually shoving my fingers into the murky haunts of venom-toting beasts. <br />OK, you may think I’m being overcautious, but the rocks around here harbour 3m (9.5 ft) long black mambas, bad-tempered puff adders and at least two species of cobra (one of whom spits venom with llama-like gusto). It’s a constant fight to keep these creatures out of <em>my</em> home without voluntarily invading theirs!<br /><br />In the past I’ve deviously circumvented this dilemma (see <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2010/09/flipless-rock-flipping.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2011/09/canniness-cowardice-or-flipping-fraud.html">here</a>), but this year my ingenuity failed me and I decided to give Rock Flipping Day a miss. So averting my eyes from all rocks, and trying to ignore the skinks and flat lizards skittering about on every outcrop, I set off to find my mongooses. After one and half hours trudging through the heat, scouring the length and breadth of Koppiekats’ range, I finally found the group sprawled in the shade right beside my car. <br /><br />And they were lying under rocks.<br />Hmm...<br /><br />Although I only had my old point-and-shoot camera with me, I dutifully lay in the dirt on my stomach and tried to take some (bad) under-rock photos.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SB2xHiLYUNU/UE5OVODlNyI/AAAAAAAABHo/evSiTZh129Y/s1600/SDC14376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="291" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SB2xHiLYUNU/UE5OVODlNyI/AAAAAAAABHo/evSiTZh129Y/s400/SDC14376.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Whatta you lookin at?</em></span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PAjGFgO84OM/UE5PBUflPZI/AAAAAAAABHw/-efZJvnk-Ss/s1600/SDC14387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PAjGFgO84OM/UE5PBUflPZI/AAAAAAAABHw/-efZJvnk-Ss/s400/SDC14387.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What dwarf mongooses (<em>Helogale parvula</em>) do under rocks.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cedz26R0db4/UE5PvDj8TFI/AAAAAAAABH4/KGM_3OJ74Hk/s1600/SDC14382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="290" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-cedz26R0db4/UE5PvDj8TFI/AAAAAAAABH4/KGM_3OJ74Hk/s400/SDC14382.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span class="ft">'There are older and fouler things than orcs in the deep places of the world</span>.'</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f0k4xuzeLT0/UE5QDo_KfzI/AAAAAAAABIA/NRwftbz60-g/s1600/SDC14350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f0k4xuzeLT0/UE5QDo_KfzI/AAAAAAAABIA/NRwftbz60-g/s400/SDC14350.JPG" width="310" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rock crevices are ever popular&nbsp;when jackals, honey badgers or dogs pay a call.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />OK, I admit I didn’t flip anything. But I also didn’t die a slow and painful death by envenomation. <br />And I defy anyone to find something cuter under a rock.<br /><br />To discover what the world's other (genuine) rock-flippers found beneath their rocks, check out <a href="http://wanderinweeta.blogspot.com/">Wanderin' Weeta</a> blog.<br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zGCpnVA_Dqo/UE5SnykamGI/AAAAAAAABIQ/T_zptHRVYCA/s1600/SDC14392.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hea="true" height="298" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zGCpnVA_Dqo/UE5SnykamGI/AAAAAAAABIQ/T_zptHRVYCA/s400/SDC14392.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-57066563211145113292012-08-25T16:08:00.002+02:002012-08-25T16:08:13.931+02:00Homesickness<span style="color: #ffd966;">The ornament of a house is the friends who frequent it.</span><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>Society&nbsp;&amp; Solitude</em>. </span><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Emerson. 1870.</span><br /><br /><br />I’m missing my ornaments!<br /><br />Oh for the pitter-patter of little gerbil feet; the sonorous yap of geckos brawling over my mealworms; the reproachful glower of an almost-stepped-upon toad!<br /><br />Where have all my wild friends gone, you’re wondering?<br />Taken to the hills in a spine-tingling, pre-tsunami exodus? Marched off by the porcupines to mount a decisive strike on Hoedspruit? Driven away by my heinous BO? <br /><br />No (well I can’t be <em>totally</em> sure about the BO). <br />The disappearance is not of the wildlife, but of me!<br /><br />You see I had to MOVE OUT of my lovely house.<br />Alright, maybe the house <em>itself</em> wasn’t exactly lovely (rather more of a dilapidated garden shed really). But the location – on the pilgrim-route for a billion thirsty beasts – was wonderful.<br />This, of course, explains why my landlord wants to demolish the place (gasp!) and replace it with a spiffy upmarket unit. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QgNmvGmSRcU/UDdumgu6Y_I/AAAAAAAABF4/O20YFYfmVOk/s1600/IMG_1950.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-QgNmvGmSRcU/UDdumgu6Y_I/AAAAAAAABF4/O20YFYfmVOk/s400/IMG_1950.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My dear old ISOLATED hovel. </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo by Amy Hill.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />But after four years cohabiting with birds and beasts of every kind, I’ve built up many special relationships. I miss the vervet monkeys peering in the windows, the waterbucks napping in the garden and the baby baboons enjoying roof-top gumboot races.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lkTJFUi700g/UDdvLNxwu3I/AAAAAAAABGA/_6k2uMHK2uQ/s1600/IMG_1252.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lkTJFUi700g/UDdvLNxwu3I/AAAAAAAABGA/_6k2uMHK2uQ/s400/IMG_1252.JPG" width="300" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>I thought </em>CSI<em> was on on Tuesdays...</em></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J7fi_rhFWqA/UDdwBC-R2wI/AAAAAAAABGQ/fJyEFGRUzuo/s1600/IMG_2120.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J7fi_rhFWqA/UDdwBC-R2wI/AAAAAAAABGQ/fJyEFGRUzuo/s400/IMG_2120.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>A paisley shirt with a striped pull-over? Oh come on. </em></span><br />Photo by Amy Hill.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-63rtebuKi1o/UDdwwDHu0TI/AAAAAAAABGY/dFTQIl8NV18/s1600/oct1+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="323" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-63rtebuKi1o/UDdwwDHu0TI/AAAAAAAABGY/dFTQIl8NV18/s400/oct1+006.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Home alone. Once they munch their way through the two-week supply of apples and sweet potatoes I hid under the stove (oh yes, I’m the tenant from Hell), my bushveld gerbils will be back on bush tucker.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now considering that I’ve only moved 1 km/0.6 miles away (as the crocodile paddles), and I’m still malingering by the Oliphants River, you might think I’m being melodramatic.<br /><br />But I’m now on the OTHER SIDE.<br /><br />No, no, I don’t mean dead (well not literally anyway). I’m referring to the <em>dark side</em>: the FAR bank of the river. <br />You see this is the posh side.<br />This is the side of resorts and lodges, manicured lawns and private airstrips (so you can pop in for Sunday brunch). Behind every shrub lurks a gardener toting nail-scissors, and brightly-garbed cleaning ladies bellow the latest gossip up and down the road. There’s even an occasional passing car!<br /><br />For a deeply committed recluse, with years of anchoritic experience, this is a nightmare!<br /><br />Here I’m met with aghast stares if I fail to change into non-holey clothes or brush my hair before walking my dogs, and I have to hide my rubbish bin so the local garbage wallah wont sniff it out (metaphorically speaking, I’m sure) and whisk it off to be emptied (hey, they charge for this service!).<br /><br />How - you might ask - have I sunken to such depths?<br /><br />Well after months begging and cajoling every landowner within a 15 km radius of my study site, and struggling vainly to portray my blood-thirsty hounds as innocuous and loveable tenants, I <em>finally</em> stumbled upon a place that would allow&nbsp;dogs.<br /><br />But if I was dwelling in a semi-derelict house before, I’m now living in a total ruin.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LfrJghiYHec/UDdx-CBrWGI/AAAAAAAABGg/APRzR3FXPVY/s1600/IMG_4547.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LfrJghiYHec/UDdx-CBrWGI/AAAAAAAABGg/APRzR3FXPVY/s400/IMG_4547.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My new home as viewed from the road (derelict car included for additional authenticity).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Burnt to the ground after being zapped by lightning, the house is a mere husk of its former self, but the owners have built&nbsp;a small&nbsp;bedsit&nbsp;underneath the ruin. Unfortunately, since this little concrete bunker is tucked <em>below</em>&nbsp;the old house, it’s perilously close to the river. In fact, based on water levels over the last 7 years, I figure I’ve got a 50% chance of surviving summer uninundated.<br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kYXaAEWWo24/UDdyVoUI_2I/AAAAAAAABGo/2vYGcHdzj48/s1600/IMG_2788.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kYXaAEWWo24/UDdyVoUI_2I/AAAAAAAABGo/2vYGcHdzj48/s400/IMG_2788.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My hobbit-hole viewed from the wild side (of the river). The creamy bit is my bedsit with the burnt-out ruin above.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Lightning never strikes in the same place twice, right</span>... <br />Photo by Amy Hill.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now before you start feeling too much sympathy, let me mention that I do have an utterly breathtaking view of the river.<br /><br />Oh and I’m not totally bereft of <em>all</em> my house ornaments.<br />Two of my old friends inadvertently accompanied me on my trans-river crossing, stowed away discretely in their hidey-hole behind the fridge. Already obscenely fat, these two are now enjoying uncontested mealworm rights and have become morbidly obese. Fortunately Wobbly Cat&nbsp;executed emergency liposuction (or something similar) and the two, no longer encumbered by their grossly bloated tails,&nbsp;are now acting like ‘new geckos’. I should probably sell their 'before and after' photos to a weight-loss program. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rD7x8wxDmtw/UDd0cQ0WH_I/AAAAAAAABGw/1UhwW5ZpLZ8/s1600/SDC14204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="377" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rD7x8wxDmtw/UDd0cQ0WH_I/AAAAAAAABGw/1UhwW5ZpLZ8/s400/SDC14204.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>I actually prefer to think of myself as chubby. </em></span><span style="font-size: small;">Turner’s geckos (<em>Pachydactylus turnerii</em>) are highly prone to self deception.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SxFlj6VNVBo/UDd07lBzX6I/AAAAAAAABG4/edWWDqtiMcU/s1600/IMG_4539.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-SxFlj6VNVBo/UDd07lBzX6I/AAAAAAAABG4/edWWDqtiMcU/s400/IMG_4539.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The view downriver from my patio. (Yes, I<em> know</em> the fence posts aren’t straight but I was cradle-cursed to transform into Mr Bean at the merest whiff of DIY.)</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qei08wOFPdQ/UDd1qp53T2I/AAAAAAAABHA/7btO3C2RIvg/s1600/IMG_4558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qei08wOFPdQ/UDd1qp53T2I/AAAAAAAABHA/7btO3C2RIvg/s400/IMG_4558.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The view upriver. The strip of tiny pinky-grey slugs (near the centre of the photo) are sunbathing hippos.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><br />Perhaps the worst aspect of living over here is that the food scraps I toss out on the compost heap just sit there... and, well, turn into compost!<br />I did wonder about floating little food parcels across the water, and I’ve been watching for surreptitious raft-building activities by the wildlife on the far bank, but so far there’s been nothing. I hope they’re all doing OK. <br /><br /><br /><strong>NEWS FLASH</strong>: My first ‘posh-side’ porcupine (a weedy, undernourished creature) showed up at my compost heap last night. Of course, Magic immediately scrambled over&nbsp;my homespun fence and chased it off, but tomorrow’s a new <strike>day</strike> night...<br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-85283921665850214802012-07-29T09:43:00.001+02:002012-07-29T09:43:09.875+02:00A prickly situationI am besieged.<br />Outside my door is a gang of heavily armed assailants. They’re stamping their feet, rattling their weapons and chanting war songs.<br />Five are picketed outside the window, but I know they’ve reinforcements waiting in the shrubbery.<br /><br />They’ve come for provender, and they won’t go until they get some.<br /><br />Alright, I admit it, they’re only rodents.<br />But they’re SERIOUSLY scary rodents.<br /><br />You can forget all that tremulous, big-eyed, be-whiskered stuff.<br />There aint no wee cowrin, tim’rous beasties here.<br />The creatures patrolling my garden weigh in at 12-18 kgs (26-40 lbs) and stand waist-high when agitated. <br />Their endlessly-growing incisors are the very least of my concerns.<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ilxmyxxPBA/T55PwXUwm2I/AAAAAAAABDw/DaF1q7J3xXw/s1600/prickles.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6ilxmyxxPBA/T55PwXUwm2I/AAAAAAAABDw/DaF1q7J3xXw/s400/prickles.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">What I face nightly when I venture out my door.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5-CdpMU6s2Y/UBTne3MdEEI/AAAAAAAABFg/W_uHiME-fWQ/s1600/the+mob.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="273" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5-CdpMU6s2Y/UBTne3MdEEI/AAAAAAAABFg/W_uHiME-fWQ/s400/the+mob.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The troops at my compost heap, noshing on their ill-gotten gains.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿Disconcertingly, Cape porcupines (<em>Hystrix australis</em>) hang out in mobs. Big mobs. <br />You see, like many African beasts, they’ve gone cooperative. <br />Mum and Dad are so profoundly dedicated to one another that their progeny can’t bear to leave the family home, and they stay on, year after year, with everyone pitching in to help rear their little brothers or sisters. Now you might consider this laudable (and I’m the first to applaud it in darling mongooses), but something’s gone horribly awry in porcupine society. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87EhUia5zPE/UBTfduBp0vI/AAAAAAAABFI/69tnscsedpY/s1600/munching.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" sda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-87EhUia5zPE/UBTfduBp0vI/AAAAAAAABFI/69tnscsedpY/s400/munching.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Cape porcupines are&nbsp;a romantic lot. Couples are sexually active all year round even though Mrs Porcupine can only conceive for 2-3 days annually (and she won’t even do that unless she’s enjoyed the&nbsp;attentions of her spouse for at least 3 months). Her hubby’s penis (which sports small prickles!) is equipped with a baculum (shovel-shaped bone) and a backward-facing opening (no, I don’t know why). And despite the couple’s&nbsp;devotion, he doesn't take&nbsp;risks: his semen quickly sets into a jelly plug: a chastity-belt porcupine-style.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />You see the beneficiary of all this praiseworthy cooperation is just one solitary little porcupette (yes, that is the official name for a baby porcupine). Cape porcupine groups (comprised of up to 12 adults) normally rear only one porcupette annually (average litter size is 1.5), so I guess it’s not surprising that the family’s ‘baby’ is as spoiled, precocious and demanding as only an only child can be.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_DAG2wX2sE/T55GSkFaXLI/AAAAAAAABC4/MbLZsyV6Qcw/s1600/porcupette+Cape+Basel+Zoo.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T_DAG2wX2sE/T55GSkFaXLI/AAAAAAAABC4/MbLZsyV6Qcw/s400/porcupette+Cape+Basel+Zoo.bmp" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This one-week-old porcupette raises Hell at Basil Zoo in Switzerland.</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo borrowed from the ever-beguiling<em> </em></span><a href="http://www.zooborns.com/zooborns/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Zooborns</span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"> blog (click </span><a href="http://www.zooborns.com/zooborns/porcupine/"><span style="font-size: x-small;">here </span></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">to see more porcupettes of various species).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span id="goog_1387799450"></span><span id="goog_1387799451"></span><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n60rHsIX1sI/T55K6-xAFzI/AAAAAAAABDU/Zqki5iEo7dk/s1600/Porcupine+baby+origin+unk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-n60rHsIX1sI/T55K6-xAFzI/AAAAAAAABDU/Zqki5iEo7dk/s400/Porcupine+baby+origin+unk.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">More gratuitous cuteness.</span> <br />Photo borrowed from <a href="http://www.geekosystem.com/adorable-porcupines/"><span style="font-size: small;">here</span></a><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;</span>(copyright conditions unknown, but just too irresistable not to include).</td></tr></tbody></table><br />So when I venture outside at night, clutching the household scraps to my chest and stumbling toward the compost heap, I blame the porcupines’ social system for what happens next.<br />Out of nowhere an almost full-grown porcupette comes hurtling; galloping straight at me with head lowered and quills erect in a rattling dazzle of spikes. There’s something quite unnerving about being charged by a porcupine; it’s reminiscent of the fabled avenging aardvarks, only with more spiky bits. <br /><br />While the adults will peaceably trundle along beside me to the compost heap, their quills lowered companionably along their backs, Junior – bristling like a giant sea urchin - repeatedly sidles up to my legs or races in front of me to lunge backwards, weaponry aimed mercilessly at my shins. At first I thought that all this belligerent sashaying was due to nervousness. But no, I’ve realised that tantrum-throwing is how charming little porcupettes scrounge victuals from their betters. <br />Tooth-gnashing, foot-stamping, hip-slamming, twirling and quill-clashing all seem to be an integral part of persuading big bro to relinquish his supper. To Junior, I’m just another member of the clan. <br /><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mRwizofSmxs/UBTWCHbRIFI/AAAAAAAABEI/5I21EZTRj3k/s1600/porc+mutterer+by+Amy+Hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="327" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mRwizofSmxs/UBTWCHbRIFI/AAAAAAAABEI/5I21EZTRj3k/s400/porc+mutterer+by+Amy+Hill.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A standoff between me and the porcupette. I’ve now become a proficient <em>porcupine mutterer</em> (like a <em>whisperer</em> only with more expletives). </span>Photo by Amy Hill.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXzo_J166es/T55OoawUL-I/AAAAAAAABDo/QzbK_0cV1Hs/s1600/Copy+of+youngster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RXzo_J166es/T55OoawUL-I/AAAAAAAABDo/QzbK_0cV1Hs/s400/Copy+of+youngster.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">African porcupines (unlike their Yankee cousins) are earth-bound creatures, retreating by day down massive, multi-roomed burrows. Cape porcupine (<em>Hystrix africaeaustralis</em>) groups normally have 1 to 3 of these palatial bunkers within their 100-300 ha (250-740 acre) territory.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />﻿ ﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S12Sx9GIjGE/T55Fj5UyK-I/AAAAAAAABCo/VARi8aO5R0I/s1600/is+that+an+apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" oda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S12Sx9GIjGE/T55Fj5UyK-I/AAAAAAAABCo/VARi8aO5R0I/s400/is+that+an+apple.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Is that an apple I see before me? </em></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">When not scoffing household refuse, Cape porcupines dine on bulbs, roots, fruit, tree bark and carrion. A leash-walking study (!) revealed that they mark important feeding sites with scent.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><br />I’d just resigned myself to this nightly trauma, when things got appreciably worse.<br />You see the porcupines aren’t the only critters snooping around my compost heap. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7JAvjLDJKco/T55F7UfSwHI/AAAAAAAABCw/x8wbppnWFW0/s1600/civet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7JAvjLDJKco/T55F7UfSwHI/AAAAAAAABCw/x8wbppnWFW0/s400/civet.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">African civets (<em>Civettictus civetta</em>) – my all time favourite beasts – are also very partial to leftovers.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now, as in the classic scenario of birds and worms, the early scavenger gets the yummiest scraps, and this has led to an escalating race between the civets and porcupines. Who can arrive first? As a consequence (and much to my dismay), the porcupette now comes trundling in a full half-hour before sunset, whiling away his/her time by patrolling the garden and violently molesting anyone (dog, cat or human) unwise enough to venture out.<br />I’m wondering whether I shouldn’t start trading in ‘guard porcupines’. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9_ysyOasIOA/UBTeCfA4XGI/AAAAAAAABFA/XaSOCxkPtCo/s1600/Scoffing+by+Amy+Hill.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" sda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9_ysyOasIOA/UBTeCfA4XGI/AAAAAAAABFA/XaSOCxkPtCo/s400/Scoffing+by+Amy+Hill.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">An anxious competitor in the apple-eating race.</span> <br />Photo by Amy Hill.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Desperate to escape the attentions of impatient, marauding porcupettes, I decided to try offering a distraction.</div>﻿﻿Porcupines, you see, have an unusual fondness for bone-gnawing (presumably quill-growing is a mineral hungry business) and they gather up any bones they find lying about, stockpiling them at their burrows. This bone-stashing tendency has proven a boon for researchers studying bygone eras. Unlike nasty old carnivores (whose bone caches are biased toward the yummiest or most easily captured prey), porcupines are completely non-discriminatory bone-collectors. Their hoards accurately reflect what’s living (or dying) out there, so their fossilised caches (recognisable by the extensive gnawing) reveal the abundance of different species, providing information about habitat and climate. <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">With a feckless disregard for the palaeobiologists of the future, I tossed all my dogs’ old, gnawed, beef bones over the fence. Would this keep the porcupette occupied? To some degree the experiment’s been successful (atrocious grinding/gnawing sounds now accompany all the foot-stamping and quill-rattling outside my door), but it’s also brought its own problems. </div>Spotted hyenas. <br />Yes, that’s right, I’m now responsible for the colonisation of my garden by hyenas. <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Up until now, I’ve only ever heard these guys whooping in the distance, or seen the occasional paw print after they’ve padded through. But it appears they’ve now moved right in. </div><br />OK, I know that many of you out there are shaking your heads sagaciously and thinking,<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">‘This is what comes of feeding wild animals...” </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And of course you’re right.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But it’s mighty cool to have hyenas in your garden.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Except perhaps when they whoop right outside your front door (heart-stoppingly, chest-thrummingly <span style="font-size: large;"><strong>LOUD</strong></span>). </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">&nbsp;﻿﻿﻿﻿ </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I just hope they don’t eat the civets or the porcupines.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Or, um... me.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿﻿﻿﻿ </div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7zNbVCq0Yow/UBTXjM1gf7I/AAAAAAAABEQ/beB5IdAiGRo/s1600/bones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7zNbVCq0Yow/UBTXjM1gf7I/AAAAAAAABEQ/beB5IdAiGRo/s400/bones.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><em>Did someone mention ‘bones’? </em></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">I admit that I took this in Kruger. The locals are far too fleet-of-foot for my blundering photographic skills.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿﻿ ﻿</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>﻿ <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><strong>NB:</strong> I wrote this post about six weeks ago but didn’t get around to posting it (sorry). I’m telling you this, not because I want to draw attention to my ineptitude, but because my circumstances have changed, and I’m now suffering SERIOUS porcupine/civet withdrawal. Oh the misery...</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿﻿</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; 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border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿ </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>﻿ <br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-39127575548789952402012-04-23T19:52:00.000+02:002012-04-23T19:55:25.987+02:00Lust to dust<span style="color: #ffd966;">Shall two knights never tilt for me </span><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;">A</span><span style="color: #ffd966;">nd let their blood be spilt for me?</span><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;">Where are the simple joys of maidenhood?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<em>The simple joys of maidenhood, </em></span><br /><span style="color: #ffd966;"><em>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Camelot.</em></span><br /><br />&nbsp;<br /><br />OK, I admit that I’m too old to indulge in these girlish yearnings but, somewhere out there, a fetching young antelope must be clapping her hooves together in maidenly glee.<br /><br />Why?<br />Well to answer that question I have to go back a month or so (oh, how I procrastinate blog posts).<br /><br />I was tootling along to my study site, oblivious to the world (you know how it is driving to work), when suddenly I was dragged from my reverie by a horrible stench. Slamming on the brakes and reversing back, I discovered a mob of 40 white-backed vultures milling about on the roadside. Jostled together in a dense clump, the massive birds strutted back and forth, making snake-necked lunges at one another and uttering threatening hiss-growls (the cries of excited orcs).<br /><br />At first I couldn’t see what they were all quarrelling over. <br />Then I glimpsed a massive grey rump.<br />Oh no! Another poached rhino! <br />(Now <em>that’s</em> a blog post I’m SERIOUSLY procrastinating about). <br />But then one of the birds leapt into the air – to hurtle with outstretched talons at its rival - and I got a proper glimpse of the carcass. <br />No, not a rhino.<br />The huge grey body was, in fact, the last mortal remains of an eland bull. Embarrassingly, the carcass looked at least two days old. Had I really sailed on past twice already? <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u6A9GQlf_s8/T32V9np1csI/AAAAAAAABAY/74HHOnttEs0/s1600/carcass.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="271" nda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u6A9GQlf_s8/T32V9np1csI/AAAAAAAABAY/74HHOnttEs0/s400/carcass.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">White-backed vultures (<em>Gyps africanus</em>) squabbling over&nbsp;their breakfast of eland venison.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br />﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4ABpyxtYBo/T32WXaTYtXI/AAAAAAAABAg/sHfMk60odKo/s1600/eland+carcass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" nda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-S4ABpyxtYBo/T32WXaTYtXI/AAAAAAAABAg/sHfMk60odKo/s400/eland+carcass.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The dearly departed eland. I didn’t snap this photo until the following day, after the vultures had made tracks (literally and metaphorically); if they see a person at a carcass they won’t come back (legacy of centuries of poisoning).</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿<br /><br />Now elands go to a lot of trouble to prevent this sort of thing from happening.<br /><br />﻿ <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nBOKIcib1ic/T32ZH-2NpcI/AAAAAAAABBA/tepetFaXCzo/s1600/fatal+wound.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nBOKIcib1ic/T32ZH-2NpcI/AAAAAAAABBA/tepetFaXCzo/s320/fatal+wound.jpg" width="258" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Being thick-skinned (15 mm/0.6” on the neck)</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">and well-armed </span><span style="font-size: small;">(those horns are 65cm/26” long)</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">didn’t save this Romeo from </span><span style="font-size: small;">death by stabbing</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">(or should that be Mercutio?).</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Tipping the scales at around 600 kg (1320 lbs), they’re too big to feature on the wish-lists of Africa’s many carnivores; in fact, as the world’s largest antelope, they flee from no one but man. So how did this one go astray? <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">If&nbsp;you hold your nose (figuratively) and take a closer look, you’ll detect the cause of death. Yep, a stab wound to the throat (he’s got another – presumably non-fatal - to his shoulder; enlarged, in the first photo, by peckish vultures).</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">This lad died for love.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Unlike most male antelopes, who bicker over their real estate holdings, elands are a romantic lot. They fight only for the attentions of a lady love. Although they swagger about in massive, mixed-sex herds (sometimes 500 beasts or more), the bulls maintain a stringent pecking order, and only the biggest and best chats up the girls. I’ve written <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2010/09/castanets-at-50-paces.html">before</a> about the devious ways they figure out who trumps whom (without having to go head to head); heck, they don’t even have to lay eyes on one another! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿﻿ </div>But when two adversaries are perfectly matched, well, what can you do? <br />Maybe they’d had a bit much to drink, or some young buck had been getting up their noses, but whatever the reason, our very ex-eland and his nemesis came to blows. <br /><br />Now fights between eland bulls are a rarity. This may be because - when things start heating up - elands resort to flaunting their hairdos. Like rockers slicking on the Brylcream or punks gelling up their mohawks, rival eland bulls smear their woolly quiffs with their own pungent cologne. Peeing ostentatiously, an agitated bull will then step backward and press the locks on his forehead and nose into the dampened earth. Rubbing gets so spirited, he’ll often pivot round and round in a circle, lifting his hind quarters right up off the ground. To complete the effect, he’ll add some pretentious headgear (a cool eland is an accessorized eland), violently thrashing with his horns at aromatic shrubs or weeds until he prizes out a pungent headdress of tattered leaves. Maybe a crown of thorns, or a beehive of grass, will give him that competitive edge. <br /><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gepg-BdbM8c/T32YV4Q_b1I/AAAAAAAABAw/wVFh6PkmjUY/s1600/eland+bull+flk+carol+foil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="282" nda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Gepg-BdbM8c/T32YV4Q_b1I/AAAAAAAABAw/wVFh6PkmjUY/s320/eland+bull+flk+carol+foil.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">An eland bull (<em>Tragelaphus oryx</em>) in slightly better health; note the luxuriant quiff. Like bull elephants, male elands go through periods of musth (called <em>ukali</em>) when their machismo (and testosterone levels) soar.</span> Photo by Carol Foil.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">But if a bull’s coiffure fails to intimidate his rival, it’s all out war. Clashes are brief and violent. The prize-fighters charge one another from 1 or 2 m/yards, ramming skulls and entangling horns. Using their massive neck muscles, they push and wrestle, striving viciously to lift and overbalance their opponent.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Now before some innocent reader comments, ‘Oh how exciting, seeing elands fight’, let me come clean. I haven’t. This is all hearsay. But don’t imagine it’s for want of trying. The problem is, elands are ridiculously shy of humans; they turn tail and flee at a distance of 300-500 m/yards. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Of course we humans only have ourselves to blame. Transform an animal into a deity and what can you expect? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You see elands feature big in San bushman mythology. San lads must skewer an eland to attain manhood, young girls are ushered into womanhood with an eland mating dance, and eland fat is both the drug of choice for shamanic trances and the favoured currency for procuring a bride. Now, this is all very flattering for your average eland, but not at all conducive to harmonious eland/human relations.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />﻿</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DJJnDyOBEAM/T32Y1Ik8yFI/AAAAAAAABA4/sAHl8SMpKek/s1600/eland+bull+2+flk+carol+foil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" nda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DJJnDyOBEAM/T32Y1Ik8yFI/AAAAAAAABA4/sAHl8SMpKek/s400/eland+bull+2+flk+carol+foil.jpg" width="335" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This bull’s from East Africa (southern African elands outgrow their stripes). He can go indefinitely without knocking back a drink, letting his temperature soar 7C (13F) on hot days, to&nbsp;save 5 litres/1.3 gallons of sweat (according to the best calculations of scientists).</span> Photo by Carol Foil.</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">﻿</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">What’s worse, elands taste yummy. Even die-hard pastoralists - such as the Masai - who eschew dining on game, happily feast on eland. The beef-like qualities of this species didn’t escape European notice either. The 19thC English anatomist Sir Richard Owen (who coined the name <em>dinosaur</em>) was so delighted with eland steak he wanted the species introduced to the UK. In a letter to the Times in the 1860s he wrote, “...we might one day see troops of elands gracefully galloping over our green swards’’. </div><br />But attempts to domesticate elands (such as that at the Askania Nova reserve in the Ukraine) have met with limited success, not least because the beasts happily hurdle 3 m (10 ft) fences from a standing start. And despite their ox-like appearance, elands steadfastly refuse to hybridize with cattle (although crosses with their closest rellies - kudus, bushbucks, nyalas - have yielded a few perplexed calves).<br /><br />Ahh, no wonder eland maidens are so smitten&nbsp;by their handsome knights.<br /><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c3pmnymPfxA/T5WN-xUs5VI/AAAAAAAABCY/7elLcoL2KTQ/s1600/eland+flk+lip+kee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" oda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c3pmnymPfxA/T5WN-xUs5VI/AAAAAAAABCY/7elLcoL2KTQ/s400/eland+flk+lip+kee.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lady elands lack the males’ quadruple chin and bouffant hairdo. They also sport longer, thinner horns; perfect for lion-skewering. Mums team up to defend their sprogs from heartless felines.</span><br />&nbsp;Photo by Lip Kee.<br /></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-89943514838275833462012-04-20T16:08:00.001+02:002012-04-22T15:50:49.428+02:00Not so Good FridayBRRRR... BRRRRR... BRRRRRRRRR!!<br />This was the sound of my wheels spinning.<br /><br />It was fast approaching midnight, and I was lying on my stomach on <br />a precipice struggling to manipulate a tyre jack into an impossible position.<br />I’d been at it for more than three hours and I was on the edge of despair.<br /><br />How did this happen?<br />Well to explain, I need to wind back a bit.<br /><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vhRQy5dkcGI/T4wf4qjfVUI/AAAAAAAABCQ/PSP9aPOGm7o/s1600/charmer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" nda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vhRQy5dkcGI/T4wf4qjfVUI/AAAAAAAABCQ/PSP9aPOGm7o/s320/charmer.jpg" width="249" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">“No... <em>I</em> don't smell bacon.”</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Good Friday started out strangely. I guess one should expect this of a religious holiday.<br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Driving to my study site I’d met two black-backed jackals accompanied by a small warthog piglet (the lion lies down with the lamb?). All members of the threesome seemed remarkably relaxed, so I guess the piglet was too big to eat. Presumably she’d misplaced her sounder and wanted for company. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Still, two big jackals, one small piglet... </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />Now, perhaps unwisely, I didn’t perceive this transposition from the <em>Lion King</em> as an omen of ill luck, so I wasn’t prepared for what was to happen that afternoon.<br />Since it was a holiday, I decided to walk&nbsp;my&nbsp;dogs&nbsp;at the local mine where mica is gouged from&nbsp;a 300 ha (740 acre) patch of jungle. Of course under the&nbsp;tangle of lush greenery lurks a century’s worth of mine shafts, tailing dumps and sharp, rusty implements. Oh yes, and the place is also peppered with&nbsp;brand new snares (the handiwork of peckish miners).</div>But, in a realm of game farms and private reserves, it’s the only place my dogs can romp off-leash without incurring major collateral damage.<br /><br />﻿ ﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MFtDtdhbKiE/T4WUgjMzeMI/AAAAAAAABBY/PLaZR5nWWZA/s1600/mine+view.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MFtDtdhbKiE/T4WUgjMzeMI/AAAAAAAABBY/PLaZR5nWWZA/s400/mine+view.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Situated on an outcrop of ancient rock (4 billion years old), the local mica mine enjoys lots of thunderstorms and a spiffy view.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1aMoxT_B1lk/T4WU0MPHKuI/AAAAAAAABBg/uW6yMTYrxL4/s1600/mica+in+situ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" qda="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1aMoxT_B1lk/T4WU0MPHKuI/AAAAAAAABBg/uW6yMTYrxL4/s400/mica+in+situ.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">If – like me - you thought mica&nbsp;consists of glinting flecks in river sand, think again. Here it loiters in massive chunks made up of many layered sheets, rather like an overflowing in-tray.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0JkdTTsqHAA/T4WVMfzZteI/AAAAAAAABBo/50BARSfZ_Kg/s1600/mica+flakes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0JkdTTsqHAA/T4WVMfzZteI/AAAAAAAABBo/50BARSfZ_Kg/s400/mica+flakes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mica is the secret ingredient in metallic paints, glittery make-up and soaps that ‘leave your skin sparkling’ (for wannabe vampires?).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />﻿﻿ <br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UH92N3TSkiI/T4WVZoDf9DI/AAAAAAAABBw/7MTGLVXOiuI/s1600/translucent+mica.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" qda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UH92N3TSkiI/T4WVZoDf9DI/AAAAAAAABBw/7MTGLVXOiuI/s320/translucent+mica.jpg" width="252" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Leaves of mica are transparent,</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">and the chunks sop up water</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">to become black and rubbery.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿Half way along our walk I&nbsp;noticed that Magic had disappeared. <br />But this was nothing unusual.<br />She’s compulsive obsessive about hunting, racing off into the bush after the merest whiff of antelope or&nbsp;blissfully engrossed for&nbsp;hours&nbsp;trying to excavate some hapless creature from the rocks.<br /><br />When Wizard and I returned to the car,&nbsp;Magic wasn’t there to meet us (as she usually is). So we sat down to wait.<br />And wait...<br />And wait...<br />My irritation rose to fury and then gradually metamorphosed into alarm.<br />By nightfall I was imagining the worst: Magic choking in a wire noose or lying&nbsp;crumpled at the foot of a mine shaft. <br /><br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <br />﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLD2O2Bj1kY/T4ZvimddMeI/AAAAAAAABB4/Yste5ku65LQ/s1600/dogs+at+mine.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLD2O2Bj1kY/T4ZvimddMeI/AAAAAAAABB4/Yste5ku65LQ/s400/dogs+at+mine.JPG" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My dogs (Magic and Wizard) gallivanting at the local mine.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ ﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FYT2QFZZ1h0/T4ZwIW9tr5I/AAAAAAAABCI/6cxBfGPQy-Y/s1600/soaking+up+the+sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-FYT2QFZZ1h0/T4ZwIW9tr5I/AAAAAAAABCI/6cxBfGPQy-Y/s400/soaking+up+the+sun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The mine's resident baboons keep a wary eye on anything that gallivants.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿&nbsp; <br />As a massive full moon rose, transforming the bush to silver, Wizard and I set out to search. Without a torch and wearing shorts and sandals, I was ill-equipped for bush-bashing; thank Heavens for the moon!<br />Now ever since I foolishly calculated (in a moment of middle-aged angst) how many full-moons I’m likely to live to enjoy, I’ve greeted the waxing of the moon with a certain anxiety. <br />Time is precious!<br />I should be out there doing something to appreciate the spectacle. <br />But this was <em>not</em> what I’d had in mind.<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>To the accompaniment of roaring lions (the mine nestles on the border of the Greater Kruger Park), Wizard and I scrambled through the thorny undergrowth, stumbling over boulders&nbsp;and peering blindly into plant-choked&nbsp;mine shafts. I tried not to contemplate the many nocturnal biting beasts (cobras, puff adders, boomslangs) and struggled valiantly against the hopelessness that engulfed me&nbsp;each time a passing cloud plunged us into darkness. <br /><br />After a couple of futile hours - calling and straining to&nbsp;hear a muffled whimper - I&nbsp;decided to give&nbsp;driving a try. But it was while negotiating the rough, overgrown tracks that <em>I </em>became ensnared.<br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Without warning my car suddenly lurched sideways and the rear wheels began to spin. Leaping out, I discovered that I’d driven into a large sinkhole (where the track passed over some&nbsp;old mine workings that had been&nbsp;covered&nbsp;with&nbsp;gravel and dirt). Beneath the deceptive covering of grass,&nbsp;the sunken earth&nbsp;-&nbsp;broken by huge cracks -&nbsp;fell away abruptly to my left, where rocks and&nbsp;pebbles were still merrily cascading&nbsp;down into a half-filled mine shaft. It was over this shaft that my left front wheel was dangling. </div>Oh f#*@!!<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Of course - at Easter - the mine was deserted.<br />I was going to have to get myself out. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>Over and over, I jacked up my car and heaved and shoved&nbsp;boulders beneath the front wheel. Unfortunately, this involved crawling about on the very edge of the crumbling mine shaft; each insecure foothold creating&nbsp;a landslide of gravel. Time and again I tried&nbsp;moving the car. No go. So then I painstakingly did the same with the rear wheels (to give them more traction). But all the while the ground around us was continuing to subside, and my car was listing further and further to the left. I envisioned it slip-sliding down into the maw of the tunnel until only its rear bumper stuck out, like in those improbable car insurance ads. Meanwhile,&nbsp;Wizard just lay on my bakkie/ute/truck's bench seat; head on paws, softly whimpering&nbsp;as if his world had come to an end. <br /><br />By midnight I finally concluded that I’d never get out alone; I needed to be towed.<br /><br />﻿And that meant waiting for&nbsp;morning. Either I could&nbsp;sleep (??) the night on a small seat with a large husky, or I could hike&nbsp;12 km/7.5 miles home (mostly along the main road which – in South Africa – is <em>not</em> a safe venue for a solitary, midnight stroll).<br />Of course there <em>was </em>another option.<br />One I’d been steadfastly refusing to consider for the last three hours.<br /><br />Up until now I’d been trying to <em>reverse</em> my vehicle out of the sinkhole; but I could try driving forward.<br />Yes, this did mean going further down into the depression and would almost inevitably result in the vehicle sliding left, down into the actual mine shaft.<br />But <em>if </em>I could just keep the rear wheel on the disintegrating edge of the shaft, there was a flicker of a chance&nbsp;I’d gain enough momentum to scale the far side of the sinkhole.<br />And heck, I was going to have to be towed out anyway...<br />One might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, right?<br />﻿﻿ <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Ordering Wizard out of the car (so we both didn’t end up underground), I put the car in gear. Slamming on the accelerator, the car lurched&nbsp;forward. With a whomp and a judder and a loud susurration (as large quantities of earth and stones poured own the mine shaft) we managed to crawl to the far edge of the sink hole.</div>Oh my God!<br />We were OUT.<br />﻿<br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now trembling from head to foot,&nbsp;I&nbsp;couldn’t face resuming the search for Magic.</div>Wherever she was – dead or alive – she was going to have to wait until morning. <br /><br />Driving back along the rough, broken tracks, through the on-again, off-again moonlight, we met Magic at the mine’s front gate.<br />She was standing in the middle of the road, wagging furiously.<br />I’ve no idea where she’d been or what she’d been doing.<br /><br />But all’s well that ends well, I guess... <br />Hmm... <br /><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">﻿﻿ </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-47EUG2qVC8I/T4ZwA3hHNhI/AAAAAAAABCA/2lbn2akEYM4/s1600/magic+chewing+hrn.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" qda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-47EUG2qVC8I/T4ZwA3hHNhI/AAAAAAAABCA/2lbn2akEYM4/s400/magic+chewing+hrn.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Magic: the source of my woes.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-87639929131156923732012-04-11T16:23:00.000+02:002012-04-11T16:23:09.580+02:00Off air<br />&nbsp;<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HOYSYGN2jmw/T4WRvHACexI/AAAAAAAABBQ/5zqfn_trKLM/s1600/sorry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="341" qda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HOYSYGN2jmw/T4WRvHACexI/AAAAAAAABBQ/5zqfn_trKLM/s400/sorry.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ffe599; font-size: large;">SORRY</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Sorry I haven’t blogged for a while.<br /><br />Unfortunately some vile evil doer has hacked into my internet connection, making it so sluggish that it’s basically unworkable.<br /><br />I’m struggling to put this wrong right, but in the meantime I’m pretty much off air.<br /><br />I apologise for any inconvenience!<br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-77052885093980797072012-02-18T13:24:00.001+02:002012-02-18T13:45:56.693+02:00An embarrassing confession...We all make mistakes, right?<br />There’s no call for embarrassment.<br />But some mistakes make you feel sillier than others...<br /><br />Now I’m not talking about those absent-minded slip ups that everyone makes <span style="font-size: x-small;">(they do, don’t they?)</span>.<br />You know, like realising in the supermarket that your shirt’s on inside out or that you’ve forgotten to change out of your mismatched trainers (the red pair’s left shoe is raggedy and the blue pair’s right shoe... Well, the <em>mongooses</em> don’t mind!). <br /><br />No, the kind of blunder I’m talking about springs from ignorance, <strike>pure and simple</strike> uncouth and ugly.<br /><br />I remember my sister discovering&nbsp;that her rural high-school pupils didn’t believe dinosaurs ever existed. They thought that these prehistoric beasts – along with King Kong, Godzilla and the Muppets – were creations of the media.<br />Well <em>that’s</em> the sort of mistake that I’m guilty of.<br /><br />It all started when I was pottering about the local newsagent and noticed a stack of glossy, movie-spinoff booklets. <br />A sweat-streaked Harry Potter glared up from the cover of the top one, below that peeped the earnest blue face of a <em>Na’vi</em> from Avatar, and on a third, two CGI aliens stared nonchalantly off into space. They were lankily humanoid but clothed in a stylised uniform of fur: pure white with chocolate brown insets on their arms, chest and thighs. Disconcertingly golden eyes stared from their smooth black faces, and black elf-like ears peeped from the fur on their heads. <br />‘What will they come up with next’, I wondered before sauntering on.<br /><br />But that image kept haunting me; there was something disquieting about it. They were so humanlike, but... <br />It was as if the artist had melded human facial features with those of a llama or guanaco. It was uncanny. And unnerving.<br /><br />So you can imagine my shock - on my very first day in Madagascar – when I rounded a bend on a forest trail and found myself face to face with just such an alien. In fact, <em>two</em> real, living, breathing aliens. <br />Oh, and did I mention the excruciating&nbsp;embarrassment?<br />﻿ <br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtOwFk44aEM/Tz5qbsNCmrI/AAAAAAAAA9w/VHbfUEKp51w/s1600/Coquerels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtOwFk44aEM/Tz5qbsNCmrI/AAAAAAAAA9w/VHbfUEKp51w/s400/Coquerels.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Extraterrestrials assessing the chemical composition of Earth’s flora? No,&nbsp;Coquerel’s sifakas (<em>Propithecus coquereli</em>) contemplating lunch. </span><span style="font-size: small;">But you can see how one could be mistaken, can’t you? Oh sure you can.</span>&nbsp; Please...</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BDEzFai3wxg/Tz5wrSKptvI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/Fs-v_N7UKqo/s1600/Coquerels+sifaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BDEzFai3wxg/Tz5wrSKptvI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/Fs-v_N7UKqo/s400/Coquerels+sifaka.jpg" width="298" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">When not impersonating computer-generated aliens, Coquerel’s sifakas hang out in groups of 2-10, in the dry forests of NW Madagascar. Like all sifakas, they're strictly vegan and the ladies rule the roost. </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Named after their explosive, hissing alarm call (<em>shee-fark</em>!), sifakas are the bounders of the lemur world. I’m not being judgemental here; I mean it literally. They’re made to hop. With legs 35% lankier than their arms (the figure for people is 65%), these lemurs leap frog-like from tree trunk to tree trunk, and cling there vertically with their knees pressed against their chests. They’ve artistically long fingers, and utterly outrageous big toes, to clamp vice-like around tree trunks.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pT6d_LZ1Xg8/Tz5xnSLjjlI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/Y0MwvEU4aoQ/s1600/sifaka+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-pT6d_LZ1Xg8/Tz5xnSLjjlI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/Y0MwvEU4aoQ/s400/sifaka+feet.jpg" width="300" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A toe of note.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now if my first encounter with sifakas made&nbsp;me feel like Bridget Jones at the launch of <em>Kafka’s Motorbike</em>, my second interaction was almost as disquieting. <br /><br />We’d just arrived at Berenty Private Reserve in southern Madagascar after a long, hot morning jolting over crumbling tarmac (last road mending, the 1950s). Trudging through the heat and dust towards the promise of lunch, I glanced up into a huge tamarind tree that overhung the tourist cabins.<br />There, almost within arm’s reach, was&nbsp;a fluffy white tangle of Verreaux’s sifakas. Pristine white, apart from a Santa’s cap of chestnut brown, they lounged along the tree’s massive branches or hung languidly upside down from the branch tips like an angelic manifestation of spider monkeys. As I gasped, they gazed down at me interestedly, golden eyes bright in their intelligent sooty faces. I can’t begin to describe the emotional impact of their unexpected and incongruous appearance; try to imagine the warmth invoked by fluffy white bath-towels coupled with the enchantment of snow.<br />Needless to say, I was very late for lunch.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ulKC2uOAvrY/Tz5sKyeySNI/AAAAAAAAA-A/nrPfJVhHdCE/s1600/madagascar+126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ulKC2uOAvrY/Tz5sKyeySNI/AAAAAAAAA-A/nrPfJVhHdCE/s400/madagascar+126.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Of the nine sifaka species bouncing around Madagascar, only the Verreaux’s sifaka (<em>Propithecus verreaux</em>) is not endangered (it’s considered vulnerable). It’s also my favourite (why court heartbreak?).</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--0g4FrCzEOU/Tz5yuBCjvZI/AAAAAAAAA-g/SnG4Nl0_PRM/s1600/madagascar+165.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--0g4FrCzEOU/Tz5yuBCjvZI/AAAAAAAAA-g/SnG4Nl0_PRM/s400/madagascar+165.jpg" width="298" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Verreaux's sifaka groups at Berenty hold territories of&nbsp;only 2-3 ha (5-7 acres); that means 15&nbsp;groups of sifaka could ricochet around happily within the territory of one dwarf mongoose group!&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FWDhCrvBihA/Tz9iyJKN1PI/AAAAAAAABAI/TqFmSgi5w_0/s1600/madagascar+167.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FWDhCrvBihA/Tz9iyJKN1PI/AAAAAAAABAI/TqFmSgi5w_0/s400/madagascar+167.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hanging loose. Verreaux's sifakas live in mixed-sex groups where love is free.&nbsp;However,&nbsp;the reigning&nbsp;honcho&nbsp;fathers most of the kids because&nbsp;he dogs the steps of&nbsp;any female on heat.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ ﻿﻿﻿<br />Now if, like me, your enthusiasm for wildlife is tainted by vices (laziness, for example, or voyeurism), Berenty Reserve is <u>the</u> place to be. <br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Protected since 1936, this tiny pocket (250 ha /620 acres) of gallery forest is set within a vast sisal plantation (the spiky aloe used to make ‘green’ shopping bags) and is chockfull of lemurs. Alison Jolly began studying ring-tailed lemurs here&nbsp;in 1963, so the furred inhabitants are enchantingly blasé about&nbsp;non-furred primates. You can lounge on your veranda and happily spy on three species of lemur&nbsp;as they blithely scent-mark, squabble or snooze. And of course you can also potter at leisure in the forest, blissfully unchivvied by zealous park guides.</span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It was certainly a highlight of my trip.</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿</span>&nbsp;﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿</div>﻿ <br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pjMwPXrFVyY/Tz9D9v2KYJI/AAAAAAAAA-4/0E65u-FsIJM/s1600/madagascar+341.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pjMwPXrFVyY/Tz9D9v2KYJI/AAAAAAAAA-4/0E65u-FsIJM/s400/madagascar+341.jpg" width="298" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">No, not a sifaka, but a typical Berenty scene. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Ring-tailed lemurs (<em>Lemur catta</em>) and </span><span style="font-size: small;">red-fronted brown </span><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2011/11/love-at-first-lemur.html">lemurs</a> also&nbsp;</span><span style="font-size: small;">smooch </span><span style="font-size: small;">around camp.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿<br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KlWknywQQZQ/Tz9X8AzUXrI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ihtp8mB2kqE/s1600/crowned+sifaka.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KlWknywQQZQ/Tz9X8AzUXrI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/ihtp8mB2kqE/s400/crowned+sifaka.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">High density living is the norm for&nbsp;sifakas. Groups of crowned sifaka (<em>Propithecus coronatus</em>) claim ownership to just 1.5 ha (3.7 acres) of&nbsp;dry deciduous forest (in NW Madagascar) and they advertise possession by&nbsp;smearing around goo from their chest&nbsp;and anal glands.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sifakas, of course, are&nbsp;famous for another trait. Designed to leap, tree to tree, they aren’t well equipped to negotiate flat land. Bizarrely, they stand up on their lanky hind legs and skip along sideways, twisting their torsos back and forth and holding their arms up effeminately for balance. If you haven’t seen footage of these guys ‘dancing’, treat yourself by clicking <span id="goog_393296902"></span><a href="http://www.arkive.org/verreauxs-sifaka/propithecus-verreauxi/video-06b.html#text=All">here<span id="goog_393296903"></span></a> or <a href="http://www.arkive.org/verreauxs-sifaka/propithecus-verreauxi/video-17.html#text=All">here</a>. </span></div>﻿ ﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gbo8iW-n1Qg/Tz9P75nEPeI/AAAAAAAAA_A/UkU4qUqXzwM/s1600/madagascar+237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gbo8iW-n1Qg/Tz9P75nEPeI/AAAAAAAAA_A/UkU4qUqXzwM/s400/madagascar+237.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Leaping lemurs!</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ ﻿﻿ <br />﻿﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tXmdTR8XWeQ/Tz9VsHyf5mI/AAAAAAAAA_I/UCGwU5AWXzU/s1600/madagascar+240.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tXmdTR8XWeQ/Tz9VsHyf5mI/AAAAAAAAA_I/UCGwU5AWXzU/s400/madagascar+240.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">'No, I've never heard of the Ministry of Funny Walks.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Why do you ask?</span>'</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿ <br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-878dG7EnEoU/Tz9W8H8pywI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/wFq7NDgrZG4/s1600/madagascar+287.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="280" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-878dG7EnEoU/Tz9W8H8pywI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/wFq7NDgrZG4/s400/madagascar+287.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: small;">Let's move it, move it, move it!</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">&nbsp; <br />Strutting their stuff by day, sifakas kip in the tree tops after dark. But despite this safety measure, being eaten is still a serious problem for them (well for anyone, I guess). Fosas, who specialise in chomping mammals, cunningly clamber up and nab them in the night. Raptors&nbsp;also won't say no&nbsp;to an occassional lemur.&nbsp; <br />In an effort to evade these lemur-eaters,&nbsp;sifakas employ the usual arsenal of ‘functionally referential’ alarm calls&nbsp;(i.e. they shriek ‘Run!’ or ‘Hide!’ or ‘Get down!’ rather than ‘Harrier-at-10 o’clock!’ or ‘Bloody fosa!’).<br /><br />What’s interesting is that different populations use the standard calls in different ways. While everyone seems to know that roaring barks warn of raptors (the lemurs look up and climb down),&nbsp;<a href="http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3047677/">researchers</a> found that playbacks of the iconic <em>shee-fark</em> cry invoked mixed responses. <br />Coquerel’s sifakas, and Verreaux’s sifakas who lived within fosa territory, believed it warned of ground predators (they looked down and climbed up), but Verreaux’s sifakas living in a fosa-free local just ran away. Growls were even more personalised. Coquerel's sifakas living in places with many birds of prey interpreted a growl&nbsp;as&nbsp;warning of aerial predators, while Verreaux's sifakas&nbsp;residing in fosa-rich habitat thought a growl meant&nbsp;prowling carnivores.&nbsp;The other populations, of both species, associated growls with minor disturbances. <br />Now this shows that the sifakas learn the meaning of their calls from others, and it lets them adapt calls to meet local&nbsp;needs. But what happens when we come along and translocate animals from one population&nbsp;to another? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">﻿ ﻿ </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jdkzImTx-_s/Tz9evZE1qEI/AAAAAAAAA_4/Mf_f1xA3_nI/s1600/madagascar+605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="257" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jdkzImTx-_s/Tz9evZE1qEI/AAAAAAAAA_4/Mf_f1xA3_nI/s400/madagascar+605.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">'What? He's growling?! It's all Greek to me.' </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">The diademed sifakas (<em>Propithecus diadema</em>) living in Analamazoatra Special Reserve<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: &quot;Calibri&quot;, &quot;sans-serif&quot;; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: &quot;Times New Roman&quot;; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>(</span>aka Perinet) were translocated&nbsp;into the park in 2006 from three different sites (the original inhabitants&nbsp;were hunted to&nbsp;extinction in 1973). They appear to be prospering despite any language barriers.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3OF8_0sgmwc/Tz9ZAUkzrSI/AAAAAAAAA_g/lEyqtC-u17s/s1600/madagascar+526.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3OF8_0sgmwc/Tz9ZAUkzrSI/AAAAAAAAA_g/lEyqtC-u17s/s400/madagascar+526.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-size: small;">Like all the larger lemurs, Milne Edward's sifakas (<em>Propithecus edwardsi</em>) are&nbsp;hunted by humans as well as fosas. Although 'fady' (taboo)&nbsp;prevents certain tribes from consuming particular&nbsp;species, it often doesn't prohibit&nbsp;them from catching&nbsp;and selling the animals&nbsp;to people&nbsp;who do. Lemur is&nbsp;a delicacy in city restuarants.</span></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6JBRkOTJgrI/Tz9aRymKKaI/AAAAAAAAA_o/I53MYtGACzw/s1600/madagascar+528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6JBRkOTJgrI/Tz9aRymKKaI/AAAAAAAAA_o/I53MYtGACzw/s400/madagascar+528.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Fossa snack food. Milne Edward’s sifakas bear only a single sprog every second year. 40% of their ankle-biters don’t make it to their first birthday, and only a third reach puberty.</span></div></div></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vO9BHtEcOEs/Tz9mxNLWQ9I/AAAAAAAABAQ/kCqvONqee-o/s1600/Milne+Edwards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vO9BHtEcOEs/Tz9mxNLWQ9I/AAAAAAAABAQ/kCqvONqee-o/s400/Milne+Edwards.jpg" width="400" yda="true" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A Milne Edward's sifaka (in Ranomafana National Park) awaiting&nbsp;the arrival of a Hollywood talent scout.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-72004833344406336392012-02-03T23:32:00.001+02:002012-02-03T23:32:39.863+02:00Masked weavers revealedIf you’ve come here expecting an exposé on the criminal activities of textile workers, you’re in for a disappointment.<br /><br />This post is about something much less exciting: SEX.<br /><br />Now I don’t know how you choose your sexual partners, and I wouldn’t dare suggest that <em>anything</em> is inappropriate... But whatever traits turn you on, you can be certain that somewhere out there someone with feathers is already doing it. <br /><br />Regardless of whether your interest is sparked by a lover’s apparel, their talent in the performing arts, their real-estate holdings, the colour of their footwear (you’d have to be a real booby to go for this), their <a href="http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/notrocketscience/2012/01/19/male-bowerbirds-use-forced-perspective-architecture-to-get-more-sex/">artistry</a> or – let’s get down to it – the size of their gender-specific endowments (excuse me, <em>I</em> was referring to tail plumes), your tastes don’t differ from millions of birds.<br /><br />But there’s one group of feathered critters whose predilections are genuinely perverse.<br />For them, sweaty singlets and wolf-whistles are all the go.<br />That’s right; construction workers rule the roost in weaver society.<br /><br />Now if DIY skills were the currency of ardour in humans, I’d be&nbsp;destined for barren spinsterhood (hey, wait a minute, I am a barren spinster...). Although home-building skills may seem a tepid way to woo a lover, it hasn't held back&nbsp;weavers. Around 62 species (all in the genus <em>Ploceus</em>) are out there busily knocking up their edifices, mostly in Africa but also&nbsp;in southern Asia too. <br />And with all the recent rain, a large proportion of these creatures seem to be doing it right here.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GMCOk6Ecr4E/Tyw-oFSAmXI/AAAAAAAAA8w/PoCyhvv8dwg/s1600/lesser+masked+weaver.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GMCOk6Ecr4E/Tyw-oFSAmXI/AAAAAAAAA8w/PoCyhvv8dwg/s400/lesser+masked+weaver.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A macho lesser masked weaver (<em>Ploceus intermedius</em>) kitted out for love. He only dons his mask - in bad-boy warning colours - when the <strike>talent</strike> weather is hot.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Gathering in rowdy hordes in trees overhanging water, the local lesser masked weavers are in a state of frenzy. <br />Males dash back and forth with long grass stems trailing from their bills, and there’s a constant buzz of chirping and squawking, which swells periodically into a goal-score roar&nbsp;when a flirtatious chick&nbsp;drops&nbsp;by. <br /><br />Before a weaver on the make can fabricate an alluring boudoir, he must first stake out his own patch within the colony. This involves lunging at intruders and grappling <strike>tooth and nail</strike> beak and talon with any persistent rivals. Once&nbsp;he's&nbsp;scored an exclusive building site, Romeo gets to work weaving a collection of finely-laced, retort-shaped homes (if you're not a closet alchemist, a <em>retort</em> is a glass flask with a spherical base and a long tapering neck that's bent downward; it’s designed for distilling things). The male’s goal is to&nbsp;distil a harem of lady tenants who’ll considerately raise his chicks for him. <br /><br />Using only fresh green grass, plucked straight from the clump, he twists and pokes and pulls, entwining the strips intricately, while emanating an air of intense and bad-tempered concentration. As the grass strands dry, they shrink, tightening up the weave and strengthening the structure. But with nest sites at a premium, a male can’t afford to keep any untenanted premises on his books, so pissed-off males demolish&nbsp;nests that have proven&nbsp;unpopular.<br /><br />In the quest for the most beguiling nest, males also indulge in a bit of landscape gardening, clipping the leaves from all branches near their homespun abodes. This - along with the nest’s funnel entrance - is thought to make things tricky for those iniquitous nest robbers, the harrier hawk and the boomslang. <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mm6ieOKOF8/TyxCkmk6afI/AAAAAAAAA84/AMpptJ7PJ6s/s1600/lesser+masked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--mm6ieOKOF8/TyxCkmk6afI/AAAAAAAAA84/AMpptJ7PJ6s/s400/lesser+masked.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘These damn things just keep growing BACK!’</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O459XJk_4qg/TyxECNj003I/AAAAAAAAA9A/o_RxBv_ldE8/s1600/leaf+cutting.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O459XJk_4qg/TyxECNj003I/AAAAAAAAA9A/o_RxBv_ldE8/s400/leaf+cutting.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘Well, that’s an<em> improvement</em> anyway.’</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />When a lady weaver approaches, all the males get very excited,&nbsp;snatching up a grass stem&nbsp;and dashing to their&nbsp;best construction. Hanging from the base, a hopeful male flutters his wings enticingly, sticks his tail out horizontally and points his beak suggestively into his nest. He also chirps in a frenzied manner (precise translation unavailable, but I daresay you know all the usual pick up lines...). <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-54qxf2KUpx0/TyxGr2blMEI/AAAAAAAAA9I/i4_DmgzR3OI/s1600/landlord.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-54qxf2KUpx0/TyxGr2blMEI/AAAAAAAAA9I/i4_DmgzR3OI/s400/landlord.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘If you come in here, you can see the playroom has a northerly aspect...’</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xEzfhv3DL3Q/TyxKdgj1BYI/AAAAAAAAA9o/r3E_1q737KU/s1600/displaying.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xEzfhv3DL3Q/TyxKdgj1BYI/AAAAAAAAA9o/r3E_1q737KU/s400/displaying.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘I think someone should really tell George that the can-can is so <em>yesterday</em>.’</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>For any inept handymen out there, consoling themselves that bird's nest-building skills are hardwired anyhow, let me disabuse you. Male weavers must learn their trade.<br /><br />While yearling females rush headlong into motherhood, their brothers eschew sex for a year or two. These young bloods get together in colonies of their own where they can work on their erections without censure. <a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S000334727380079X">Experiments</a> show that if adolescent males are deprived of this early practice (by denying them building materials), their DIY skills are seriously retarded. However, just like riding a bicycle (which you may be please to know male weavers <em>cannot</em> do), building prowess - once learned - is never forgotten; even if callous researchers blockade building supplies for years on end.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-05nEa7WVa-Q/TyxJZcSYNaI/AAAAAAAAA9g/-vcOJ6pgq7s/s1600/fem+lesser+masked.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-05nEa7WVa-Q/TyxJZcSYNaI/AAAAAAAAA9g/-vcOJ6pgq7s/s400/fem+lesser+masked.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Slipshod workmanship will not escape the eye of a lady lesser masked weaver. However, the landlord's only responsible for creating the nest’s outer walls; all soft furnishings must be provided by the tenant.</span> <br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />But what does today’s lady weaver seek in a family residence?<br /><br /><a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/0003347278900635">Researchers</a> working with village weavers (<em>Ploceus cucullata</em>) found that mothers-to-be aren’t swayed by outward appearances; neatness and closeness of weave are, after all, mere superficialities. What counts is the strength of the materials and the newness of construction. The girls will have no brook with old, browned off nests and, like master chefs, they’re canny at detecting what’s fresh and what’s not. Merely painting a good nest brown will not fool them, although the same cannot be said for males, who are three-times more like to demolish a nest if it’s been artificially dyed brown.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j1XoogBnnvw/TyxIPoft4MI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/qde0Jw2lTVo/s1600/tenant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-j1XoogBnnvw/TyxIPoft4MI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/qde0Jw2lTVo/s400/tenant.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘Hmm, I do like a <em>Paspalum</em> veneer; it gives a much fresher ambience than the traditional <em>Poa</em> finish...’</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--pH_JgJ_pyw/TyxHV0UM8aI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/-cgfxgRHvo0/s1600/foreplay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" sda="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--pH_JgJ_pyw/TyxHV0UM8aI/AAAAAAAAA9Q/-cgfxgRHvo0/s400/foreplay.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">‘Yes Martha, I’ll join you in a mo’. That little minx Estella is looking real interested in Number 3.’</span> <span style="font-size: small;"></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br /><br />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-63213501774317763012012-01-28T21:21:00.000+02:002012-01-29T13:52:44.687+02:00Hey, I ain't drowned yet!Do you ever have one of those days?<br />You know, when getting out of bed turns out to be a seriously bad decision?<br /><br />Well Wednesday (18th Jan) was that kind of day for me.<br />Things actually started going pear-shaped on Tuesday afternoon,&nbsp;I just didn't notice.<br />That&nbsp;was when the rain started.<br /><br />Now rain is good; we need rain.<br />I’m thoroughly sick of providing halfway housing for dispossessed tadpoles.<br />OK, I <em>did</em> spend much of Tuesday night emptying drip-buckets, mopping up indoor waterways and rearranging electrical appliances, but that’s only to be expected.<br />Yet perhaps if someone had mentioned the word ‘<em><strong>cyclone</strong></em>’ I may have been more wary.<br />Maybe I wouldn't have&nbsp;headed out into the downpour at 5am to collect an Australian friend who was flying into Nelspruit&nbsp;(200 km/124 miles south of here).<br /><br />The 3 km (1.9 miles) slalom run to the front gate was an eye-opener. Skidding through sticky red mud, plunging&nbsp;into overflowing creeks, circumventing hitherto unknown lakes and careening&nbsp;into culverts was somewhat off-putting. When I finally crept onto the tarred road (with one headlight blearily water-filled and my fan-belt squealing in protest), I thought my troubles were over.<br /><br />Hmm... <br />I can’t see <em>anything</em> in this torrential rain.<br />Did those oncoming cars have their hazard lights on? I wonder..?<br /><br />Next minute I’m aquaplaning at 100 kph (60 mph) down a road that’s a river. The water is almost 18 inches (45cm) deep and&nbsp;bubbling along at a merry pace. When my tyres finally touchdown, I figure I’d better keep going, since I’m already <em>in it</em> (in every sense of the phrase). So on I chug... and on... and on... milk chocolate water churning&nbsp;against the windows. I’m getting nervous: how deep is this water going to get?<br />Then looming through my deluge-smeared windscreen are the rabbit-dazzling headlights of a massive truck.<br />In the centre of the bloody <strike>river</strike> road! <br />The behemoth’s horn blares deafeningly and just as I’m thinking my end has come, the truck’s huge bow wave catches my car and swirls it sideways. Shit, shit, where does the tarmac end?? Once I regain steering, I manage to lurch back on to what could be the road.<br />Oh God! <br />Can I really reach the airport?<br /><br />By the time I slew, skid and slosh my way into Hoedspruit (35 km/22 miles from home) I have the demeanour of a druggie in rehab.<br /><br />I’ll just stop here, calm down&nbsp;and decide what to do, I think.<br />Oh.<br />The petrol station is hidden behind Lake Geneva. The supermarket’s car park is an ocean vista.<br />Maybe not.<br /><br />But how is an aeroplane going to land in this?? <br /><br />Still unable to see more than a foot in front of my beleaguered windscreen wipers, I decide to flee&nbsp;for home before the road is cut entirely. So back I chug, through hell and high water.<br /><br />Just as I reach my front gate, the deluge stops. My mood lightens with the sky. I phone the airline: oh yes, the flight touched down right on time. I envision my friend sitting, waiting...<br />Maybe I gave up too easily.<br />Maybe I’m just being a wimp. <br />After all, the water is probably no more than runoff from the actual downpour. Give it a few minutes and it’ll all flow away... <br />So round I go again and head back. <br /><br />There’s more traffic about now and big 4-wheel-drives cluster nervously at the edge of the floodwaters, like bathers in winter. Their occupants stare open-mouthed as I zip past them in my little bakkie/ute/truck/van (a 1989, 2-wheel-drive, 1800 Hilux), plunging fearlessly into the swirling torrent (heck, I’ve forded&nbsp;it twice already!).<br /><br />This time I’m determined not to give up. My grim resolve carries me through&nbsp;rushing, log-toting rivers, over-pouring dams and vast brown lakes. But 50 km (30 miles) from home I’m defeated. Up ahead a long line of motorists sit gazing in dismay at an endless expanse of water. In the middle a single car&nbsp;sits. Its tail lights&nbsp;still blaze defiantly although they’re submerged, and water's gently lapping over its bonnet/hood.<br /><br />Ahh. Time to head back home.<br /><br />But I don’t make it home. Just one kilometre (half a mile) from pay dirt I’m forced to abandon my <strike>waterlogged</strike> trusty car&nbsp;on the edge of&nbsp;a waist-deep beck. After wading through, I squelch home on foot. <br /><br />Now this <em>should</em> be the end of the tale, shouldn’t it?<br /><br />I'd love to be able to describe how I&nbsp;snuggled up on the sofa with my dogs and a warm cup of cocoa and listened to the falling rain. <br /><br />But I can’t. Or rather I couldn’t (hear the rain, or anything else for that matter). You see outside my backdoor a jumbo jet was taxiing. Or at least that’s how it sounded. In reality it was the Oliphants River and it was in FULL flood. ﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ <br /><br /><br />﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿﻿ ﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEg6lRZqkik/TyQe6tLh3uI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/1hoVvA4RTtE/s1600/spare+bedroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEg6lRZqkik/TyQe6tLh3uI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/1hoVvA4RTtE/s400/spare+bedroom.jpg" width="266" /></a></div></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The view from my spare bedroom.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">The nice caramelly bit is raging floodwater.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BFPVQ5DUxxk/TyQVUtzydwI/AAAAAAAAA7g/NNmP1N3WnOA/s1600/floodwaters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BFPVQ5DUxxk/TyQVUtzydwI/AAAAAAAAA7g/NNmP1N3WnOA/s400/floodwaters.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The caramelly bit up close.</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Not something you&nbsp;want to find on your doorstep.</span> </td></tr></tbody></table><br />Now for those of you, like myself, who didn’t think South Africa suffered cyclones, let me introduce you to the wonders of climate change. <br />Cyclone Dando made landfall in Mozambique on Sunday the 15th and after successfully inundating 4000 homes decided to try its luck in South Africa. Fortunately its overland trek exhausted the 120 kph (75 mph) winds, but didn't prevent it from dumping 380 mm (15 inches) of rain in the Hoedspruit area (in about 36 hours). The town suffered its worst floods on record; every access road was cut and both the Blyde and Klaserie rivers broke their banks, destroying shops, businesses and homes. Floods swept through the nearby Kruger National Park where several camps had to be evacuated and stranded tourists airlifted to terra firma. <br />﻿ <br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Di9sTbE1XM8/TyQWqi3Q9nI/AAAAAAAAA7o/sdwAUo6LiM0/s1600/lower+sabie+restaurant+flkr+a+&amp;+l+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Di9sTbE1XM8/TyQWqi3Q9nI/AAAAAAAAA7o/sdwAUo6LiM0/s400/lower+sabie+restaurant+flkr+a+&amp;+l+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kruger National Parks’ Sabie River (viewed from the Lower Sabie restaurant).</span> Photo by Arno &amp; Louise Meintjes.</td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mdl7fd62zkY/TyQZQhNN5RI/AAAAAAAAA7w/a86NxVYC3VM/s1600/sabi+river+flkr+a+&amp;+l+meintjes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Mdl7fd62zkY/TyQZQhNN5RI/AAAAAAAAA7w/a86NxVYC3VM/s400/sabi+river+flkr+a+&amp;+l+meintjes.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Not the best choice for a game drive (the Sabie River showing its teeth). </span>Photo by Arno &amp; Louise Meintjes.<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br />With the rain still bucketing down, I stood gazing at the river racing below my house. Huge waves and eddies churned the water and spume flew high into the air. Enormous tree trunks surfed by as fast&nbsp;as a car on the highway, and breakers crashed against the banks. <br /><br />When you live on the banks of a major river you formulate plans for this sort of an eventuality. But mine did not involve being car-less.<br />And NO vehicle could breast the torrent that I’d just waded through.<br /><br />I looked like&nbsp;I'd&nbsp;have to abandon all my possessions, and just trudge off into the hills with my pets,&nbsp;singing <em>Climb every mountain.</em> <br /><br />Surveying my house, I was a bit disconcerted to find that I really didn’t mind losing most of&nbsp;its contents (is this one of the benefits of being a hoarder?). But there were my books; and the computer. And all my work equipment.<br /><br />I spent several hours&nbsp;packing. The moment I opened the front door to move the boxes, my dogs hurtled out, disappearing off into the rain-soaked bush. Was this some eerie animal ‘presentiment’ thing, I wondered? Or just the irresistible lure of displaced cane rats? Sans dogs, I carted my books through the rain to an old shed (on slightly higher ground) and shoved and hauled my ‘valuables’ (in lidded plastic crates) up the slope into the bush. <br /><br />As the river continued to rise during the afternoon, army helicopters zoomed back and forth overhead, presumably searching for hapless victims stranded by the flood. I stood outside hopefully, looking pathetic, but I guess I wasn’t hapless enough because they just whop-whopped on by. (I’ve since heard about an 80-year-old who sat up a tree for several hours awaiting rescue - OK, her need <em>was</em> greater than mine.) <br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1cmIzxDlhs/TyQbt_2djmI/AAAAAAAAA8A/aQm7HaNUGRg/s1600/Oliphants+18+Jan12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v1cmIzxDlhs/TyQbt_2djmI/AAAAAAAAA8A/aQm7HaNUGRg/s400/Oliphants+18+Jan12.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Oliphants River roaring past my house (at 3118 cubic metres/110,111 cubic feet per second). Just enough to fill my house - floor to ceiling - in one-twelfth of a second.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />﻿<br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GG1YEFRD-iU/TyQdmQjlLwI/AAAAAAAAA8I/lTJXr6fKGIk/s1600/sans+picnic+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GG1YEFRD-iU/TyQdmQjlLwI/AAAAAAAAA8I/lTJXr6fKGIk/s400/sans+picnic+table.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My back garden. The little black blobs in the water are the uprights of a picnic table. The top is already scudding its way to Mozambique.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ ﻿ <br />The water continued to rise all evening and I kept dashing outside with my&nbsp;torch to check where the surf was breaking. If it rose another 2 m (6 ft), my house was a goner.<br /><br />I&nbsp;wasn’t relishing the prospect of sitting out the night on a hilltop in the rain. The pets wandered about restlessly with widened eyes, and my head throbbed painfully from the constant roar. I’d intended to mount an all-night vigil (so as not to wake surrounded by swirling, crocodile-infested floodwater) but tiredness overcame anxiety and prudence. Huddled in a heap, the pets and I eventually fell asleep.<br /><br />And lo and behold, at dawn the next day we were still there!<br />And the river was starting to fall. <br /><br />Yay!<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-knpzCtwlVg8/TyQv1ToADNI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/eWTk0unsU5o/s1600/aftermath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-knpzCtwlVg8/TyQv1ToADNI/AAAAAAAAA8Y/eWTk0unsU5o/s400/aftermath.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The aftermath. The riverbed below my house now looks ravaged.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿<br /><br />﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1nyVRKdqS24/TyQxXHIWRFI/AAAAAAAAA8g/bcToRe0LLt8/s1600/kruger+jan+12+189.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1nyVRKdqS24/TyQxXHIWRFI/AAAAAAAAA8g/bcToRe0LLt8/s400/kruger+jan+12+189.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Sabie River a week after the flood. Check out the railings torn from the bridge (on second thoughts you’ll need a magnifying glass; see below instead).</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>﻿ <br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vuoZf1d5KiI/TyQycUAurlI/AAAAAAAAA8o/M1uG6GogVPk/s1600/kruger+jan+12+190.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="266" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vuoZf1d5KiI/TyQycUAurlI/AAAAAAAAA8o/M1uG6GogVPk/s400/kruger+jan+12+190.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Flood-wracked railings.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><img height="96" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UEg6lRZqkik/TyQe6tLh3uI/AAAAAAAAA8Q/1hoVvA4RTtE/s400/spare+bedroom.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 355px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1835px; visibility: hidden;" width="64" /> <br /><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-767913719381352936.post-85999291508190683252012-01-10T14:49:00.000+02:002012-01-10T14:49:17.912+02:00Three's a crowd<span style="color: #f1c232;">‘twas the night before Thursday </span><br /><span style="color: #f1c232;">And all through the house</span><br /><span style="color: #f1c232;">Not a creature was stirring</span><br /><span style="color: #f1c232;">Not even a mouse.</span><br /><br />Huh?<br />THIS house??<br /><br />Where bushbabies hold nightly gumboot races in the ceiling, cheered on by a squeakery of bats? <br />Where three species of gecko brawl raucously over the rights to my mealworm colony, and resident gerbils sharpen their teeth - without pause - on my electrical appliances? <br />Oh, and let’s not forget the live-in toads who are convinced that beetle-hunting is most lucrative <em>deep</em> within my store of recycled plastic shopping bags.<br /><br />THAT house??<br />Yep.<br /><br />Silent as the grave (and the simile wasn’t chosen idly).<br /><br />What catastrophe has befallen us?<br />Did my housemates succumb to radio-active fallout from the gnawed microwave? Or maybe deadly spores wafted from the dishes mouldering in my sink? Was our water supply craftily poisoned by delinquent baboons? <br />No. We simply have a visitor come to stay.<br /><br />In truth, we’ve had three visitors (all equally ostracized by my roommates) but I managed to persuade the other two to leave.<br /><br />Now don’t imagine that these houseguests turned up unannounced.<br />It’s just that sometimes I have trouble understanding the local lingo.<br />Still, the first warning came through loud and clear. <br /><br />I was beavering away on my computer on Tuesday afternoon when a large toad hopped by. Now this is nothing unusual as I share my domicile with at least four of the beasts.<br />Hey, but wait... It’s daytime!<br />I leapt to me feet in panic.<br />You see my toads are nocturnal beings, and there’s only one thing that will drag them from their beds before sundown: a professional toad-muncher.<br /><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JftwhkadRDY/TwwTFa1IIFI/AAAAAAAAA6I/5yW5-mulXjg/s1600/SDC12593.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JftwhkadRDY/TwwTFa1IIFI/AAAAAAAAA6I/5yW5-mulXjg/s400/SDC12593.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">A&nbsp;red toad (<em>Schismaderma carens</em>): snake-detector extraordinaire.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />As the toad hurried out the back door, I cautiously crept into the kitchen (from whence the refugee had hopped). On route I passed a panic-stricken gecko, fleeing its daytime haunt behind the fridge.<br />Not a good sign. <br />A wary search of the kitchen’s nooks and crannies revealed the culprit: a Mozambique spitting cobra, lurking behind the stove.<br /><br />Now I’ve written about spitting cobras before (<a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2011/11/pillow-magic.html">here</a>, <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2010/05/spitting-in-face-of-adversary.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mainlymongoose.blogspot.com/2010/03/my-hero.html">here</a>). With appalling manners (spitting in the faces of strangers) and a lethal overbite, they’re not the sort of guest you want loitering in your food preparation area. But, fortunately, the judicious application of a broom&nbsp;induced the creature to retreat into a&nbsp;poster tube (ah, one of life’s essentials), and in no time at all I was trudging off into the bush to liberate it. <br /><br />The following day I was once again plugging away at my computer (see how diligent I am?) when Magic (my husky-cross) leapt up and rushed to the backdoor. We knew that something was loitering immediately outside because its shadow&nbsp;was moving in the strip of light under&nbsp;the door. I was gazing at this dark shape when, suddenly, a thin, black filament flicked, just for a moment, in under the door.<br />It’s a skink’s tail, I&nbsp;assumed erroneously.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yqVrTOGJxAc/TwwWcbQf9-I/AAAAAAAAA6Q/VN5N4hEYdlw/s1600/SDC12051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" kba="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yqVrTOGJxAc/TwwWcbQf9-I/AAAAAAAAA6Q/VN5N4hEYdlw/s400/SDC12051.JPG" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Rainbow skinks (<em>Trachylepsis quinquetaeniata</em>) frequently skitter in and out of my house, hunting for&nbsp;any creepy-crawlies&nbsp;the toads may have missed (or maybe just to taunt the dogs).</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Since the skinks are masters at evading canine pursuit, I opened the door to let Magic out. <br />Standing there on the doorstep was a two meter (6 ft) long rock monitor. Grey and gnarly-looking, it was bent forward with its stubby nose pressed to the crack below the door, and was flicking its long, forked tongue in underneath. I managed to grab Magic’s collar as she lunged for the reptile, and while I struggled to hold her, the monitor took off, racing in a claw-scritching, side-to-side, swayback sort of way for&nbsp;the back fence.<br /><br />Once rational thought had returned, I sagely concluded that the monitor was hunting skinks, and nonchalantly went back to the computer.<br />Big mistake. It was <em>not </em>hunting skinks.<br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xNPD66NPt84/TwwYYNOyvCI/AAAAAAAAA6g/fIrDuJxMhcg/s1600/IMG_3742.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" kba="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-xNPD66NPt84/TwwYYNOyvCI/AAAAAAAAA6g/fIrDuJxMhcg/s400/IMG_3742.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The rock monitor (<em>Varanus albigularis</em>) actively pursues its meals, licking up its victim’s scent with its forked tongue. The tongue’s prongs slot neatly&nbsp;into the paired opening of its vomeronasal organ, snugged away&nbsp;on the roof of its mouth.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Some hours later, when I lifted the lid&nbsp;from a&nbsp;mega carton of eggs sitting on my countertop (the carton, not me), I discovered what the monitor <em>was</em> hunting.&nbsp;A very large spitting cobra was coiled neatly among the eggs. The unexpectedness of this rendezvous sent me reeling backwards out of the kitchen, and the&nbsp;wily serpent&nbsp;slipped away beneath an immovable cupboard. <br /><br />Oh dear.<br /><br />Hence the complete exodus of my roomies. <br /><br />Those of us brave enough to remain behind for the night (just myself and the pets) congregated by silent consent in my bed. As the kitchen has no door, we all hoped that a massed pile of big, warm furry mammals would&nbsp;be sufficient disincentive to a roving serpent.<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-59FbKpa22OQ/TwwiYDPmkzI/AAAAAAAAA6w/Awa5Ny2I1ZI/s1600/Moz+spitting+cobra+flkr+Jeppestown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-59FbKpa22OQ/TwwiYDPmkzI/AAAAAAAAA6w/Awa5Ny2I1ZI/s400/Moz+spitting+cobra+flkr+Jeppestown.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><strong>MISSING</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Mozambique spitting cobra (<em>Naja mossambica</em>).</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">Last seen wearing a smug expression, </span><br /><span style="font-size: small;">in the vicinity of my saucepan cupboard.</span> <br />Photo posted on Flickr by Jeppestown.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />My hopes that our scaly tenant would do a moonlight flit were dashed when I went to feed the birds next morning. I discovered it curled up asleep in the spilled birdseed (clearly a strategic thinker). Once again, it exploited its shock-value to zip into hiding. My frantic efforts to find the beast failed, and the pets and I crept about the house on hyper alert, cringing from any object even remotely reminiscent of&nbsp;a snake.<br /><br />﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cbK_A5IAUk0/TwwkPTRFUeI/AAAAAAAAA7A/1uMNkdh4JRE/s1600/SDC14074.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" kba="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cbK_A5IAUk0/TwwkPTRFUeI/AAAAAAAAA7A/1uMNkdh4JRE/s400/SDC14074.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Serpent induced chaos. Emptying all my kitchen cupboards did not&nbsp;reveal the felon.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿ <br />My state of mind was not improved when I arrived home from my weekly shopping trip to discover my third caller, schlepping on the bed in my spare room.<br />What was this, a cobra convention??<br /><br />As much as I wanted to believe that this creature was my overnight guest, its wholemeal-tinted&nbsp;sheen gave the game away (my kitchen resident was decidedly terracotta). Fortunately, this one zipped into the poster tube lickety-<strike>spit</strike> split, but I was still&nbsp;feeling shaken.<br />The prospect of immediately resuming a snake-hunt was more than I could face.<br /><br />No, I thought, I’ll just take a wee break; let myself calm down a bit.<br />I know, I’ll treat myself and open the Christmas package I just picked up from the post office.<br />My mouth was already watering because it was from my sister (in Oregon USA) who normally sends me candy.<br /><br />Now I don’t know whether you’ve noticed, but siblings – even those you rarely see – have an uncanny knack for ‘hitting the spot’; and not always in a good way. That day was no exception. <br /><br />Ripping impatiently at the packaging, my heart suddenly stopped. Hidden within the&nbsp;torn wrapping paper - right beneath my fingers! - were the unmistakable coils of a snake!<br />Oh my God!<br />I let out a shriek and hurled the package across the room. My dozing pets, seeing a metre-long serpent uncoiling on the floor, careered away in all directions. <br /><br />It took us all some time to regain our composure.<br /><br />And there, lying in the middle of the lounge room floor, was a cellophane-wrapped, confectionary snake.<br />The label read, “The world’s largest gummy snake”.<br />“Almost 36 inches long” (almost?).<br />And then, just in case you were worried, “Artificially flavoured”. <br /><br /><br /><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBBLiz1TdjU/TwwlHZ3MezI/AAAAAAAAA7I/vdkD4cw0P5c/s1600/SDC14078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBBLiz1TdjU/TwwlHZ3MezI/AAAAAAAAA7I/vdkD4cw0P5c/s320/SDC14078.JPG" width="240" /></a>While munching belligerently on this snake (delicious, by the way), I decided that this would be a symbolic gesture. No more would I be terrorized in my own home by a mere elongated reptile. As I&nbsp;devoured the snake, so I would annihilate my fear. After all, my houseguest clearly didn’t want to meet me (and was skilled at achieving this) and I didn’t want to meet it.&nbsp;All in all, I daresay we could get by.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">POSTSCRIPT: </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I didn’t meet our unwelcome tenant again, and you’ll be relieved to know (or at least I was) that all my wild acquaintances&nbsp;have now moved back in. I’m presuming this means that the cobra's made tracks. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br /></div>﻿﻿﻿ <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OUlmslAoDxs/TwwmCogtQCI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/W4QRGW_aW1A/s1600/gerbil004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" kba="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OUlmslAoDxs/TwwmCogtQCI/AAAAAAAAA7Q/W4QRGW_aW1A/s400/gerbil004.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Has it gone? I've never been so pleased to see a bushveld gerbil (<em>Gerbilliscus leucogaster</em>) peeping from&nbsp;my cupboard.</span></td></tr></tbody></table>﻿﻿﻿ <br /><br /><div align="left">﻿</div><img height="96" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBBLiz1TdjU/TwwlHZ3MezI/AAAAAAAAA7I/vdkD4cw0P5c/s320/SDC14078.JPG" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 78px; mozopacity: 0.3; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 4714px; visibility: hidden;" width="72" />mainly mongoose (Lynda)http://www.blogger.com/profile/05917384766182752791noreply@blogger.com14